The last buccaneer
Date: 2024-12-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Sea stories; Adventure stories; Treasure troves -- Fiction; West Indies -- Fiction; Buccaneers -- Fiction

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Title: The last buccaneer
or, The trustees of Mrs A.

Author: L. Cope Cornford

Release date: December 4, 2024 [eBook #74835]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1902

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74835

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST BUCCANEER ***

THE LAST BUCCANEER

The
Last Buccaneer
Or
The Trustees of Mrs A

By L. Cope Cornford
Author of “Northborough Cross,”
“Captain Jacobus,” etc.

Philadelphia
J. B. Lippincott Company
1902

Copyright, 1902
By J. B. Lippincott Company

Published October, 1902

Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.

TO
RUDYARD KIPLING

CAPTAIN DAWKINS EXPLAINS

Some plunder large, some pilfer small,

Some takes it straight, some on the bend:

The same remark doth fit ’em all—

Of buccaneering there’s no end.

I seen a man I much admired
Ranging the seas of all the world,
Intent to take what he required,
Where’er the Bloody Flag’s unfurled.
He’s laid East Indiamen aboard
And King’s ships too, and—what seems odd—
From pillaging a fairy hoard
He turned to fill his hold with cod.

He’s Admiral o’ Buccaneers,
Chief o’ th’ trade that never slacks!
And borrel men like we, I fears,
May carry on till canvas cracks—
May steal the title—filch the stuff—
His tops’ls still is all we see:
The fac’ is, we ain’t good enough.
But there! You hearken unto me:—

Let him that stole now steal no more:

That signal’s hoist in Holy Writ.

Why, if you’ve wared your little store

And so don’t need no more of it,

You quit the trade—but not till then.

Or, not until the Picaroon

What only steals the life o’ men

Beats up alongside, late or soon.

Some plunder large, some pilfer small,

Some takes it straight, some on the bend:

The same remark doth fit ’em all—

Of buccaneering there’s no end.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
| Dedication—Captain Dawkins explains | 5
I. | Shows how a Simple Bait will serve to hook the Willing Fish | 9
II. | We set our Hands to a Christian Enterprise | 26
III. | In which the “Blessed Endeavour” is deprived of Direction both Spiritual and Temporal | 46
IV. | A Letter of Introduction | 63
V. | Mr Murch’s Repentance | 77
VI. | Two Catspaws and a Lady | 94
VII. | The “Wheel of Fortune” makes a Quick Run | 105
VIII. | The Story of the Incomparable Lady and the Admiral of Buccaneers | 124
IX. | How the Supercargo asserted his Independence | 136
X. | “Dux Femina Fecit” | 152
XI. | The Little Cruise of “La Modeste” | 166
XII. | The Old Buccaneer and the New | 183
XIII. | Showing what Befell in Caratasca | 209
XIV. | Captain Murch takes Command | 221
XV. | Which contains the Only Ostensible Love-Scene in the Book | 234
XVI. | Mr Dawkins gives Us a Little Surprise | 238
XVII. | The Luck is Fairly Out | 250
XVIII. | Hooky Gamaliel pays the Score | 260
XIX. | Tells the Conclusion of the Night’s Adventures | 276
XX. | The Longest Liver takes All | 289
XXI. | Mr Dawkins has the Last Word | 310

THE LAST BUCCANEER

I
Shows how a Simple Bait will serve to hook the willing Fish

One dark, moist winter afternoon, in the year of our Lord 1708, I chanced upon Brandon Pomfrett, as he was on his way to visit me. Brandon, who was my school-fellow, was now clerk in his uncle’s warehouse in Bristol. I was an humble schoolmaster in the same famous city; not discontented with my lot, and not contented, either. But Pomfrett chafed in his shackles; ’twas chiefly his dislike of tedium that drove him to seek my society—for want of a better—and that was presently to drive us both farther, perhaps, than we ever thought to go.

We turned down the narrow alley, with the ancient houses leaning foreheads across, that led to my lodging. A strong, hoarse voice arose out of the dusk, singing:

“All a-sailing to the stars,
Ye gentlemen Jack-tars;
We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green,
All up among the stars,”

bellowed the voice, and a burly man, with something of a seafaring air about him, came rolling up the causeway. We drew aside to let him pass, but he halted abruptly in front of us.

“Asking your pardon, gentlemen,” says he, “but could you tell me if I was shaping my course anyways near right for the Burning Bush, kept by a man of the curi’s name of Gamaliel? Not,” said the stranger, “that I ain’t been here before, nor that I don’t know the course—but if a man’s liquor runs from his legs to his head, what’s that poor seaman to do? I reckon I could fetch him in time, but time is—well, now, shipmates, you know what time is, no one better, by the looks of you,” ended the mariner, apparently with some obscure design of complimenting us. The stranger laying his thick, brown hand familiarly on Pomfrett’s arm as he spoke, we could not but remark a great ruby that glowed in a gold setting upon his little finger; a strange ornament for a merchant seaman.

“We’ll show you the way, sir,” says Pomfrett, whose curiosity was perhaps aroused by the sight of the ring.

Now, the Burning Bush had an ill repute as a crimp’s ken; Gamaliel’s was no place for the reputable; and it behooves a schoolmaster to make at least a pretence of piety; wherefore I hung back.

“Oh, be hanged!” said Pomfrett. “I know Gamaliel—he does business at the warehouse. Come along.”

“Ay, ay,” the mariner broke in, “heave ahead, shipmate; never spoil a merry meeting; a tot of rum will set you as brisk as a bee. Why,” says he, “you and me and you—I should say him, but meaning polite—we three, I reckon, will be as thick as thieves before the night’s out. Crack on, shipmates, for the port o’ call.”

And, turning sharp to the left, down a narrow passage, we came to the Burning Bush, a low-browed tavern with small latticed windows, that gave no hint of the great extent of the rambling premises behind them, and entered the sanded parlour, where Mr John Gamaliel was standing with his back to a bright fire. A little, thin, eager man was John Gamaliel; his nose was hooked, his fingers crooked inward like a sailor’s (a sailor he had been), his body had a forward droop, like a fish-hook.

“What! Mr Pomfrett?” said Gamaliel. “And Mr Winter, our notable instructor of youth? And Mr Dawkins, too—I had no notion you were acquainted, gentlemen.”

“Well, we are, ye see, Hookey,” returned Mr Dawkins, “so set glasses round, and smart, my lad.”

“Why, now,” said Hookey Gamaliel, bustling with glasses and bottles, “here’s a singular coincidence—you’re dropping in like this, Mr Pomfrett, and very friendly too, for only this morning I was saying to Mr Dawkins here, I must pay a visit to your good uncle, Mr Pomfrett, to show him a little curiosity of the sea. It might be worth his while to look at it.”

At these words, Mr Dawkins fixed a sudden, frowning gaze upon the speaker, who returned his look with a steady composure. It was as though Mr Dawkins were making a strenuous attempt to clear the fumes of liquor from his head, in order to enter into the conversation.

“And very curiously, too,” the Jew went on, with his eyes still upon the face of Mr Dawkins, upon which a light of understanding was beginning to dawn, “the article in question is the property of my friend, Mr James Dawkins, here, who——”

“I take it that you mean the bottle, in this here palaver, Hookey,” broke in Mr Dawkins, still staring upon the Jew. “Is that it?”

“The bottle, to be sure, Mr Dawkins. According to what you said, you know,” returned Gamaliel, “or I wouldn’t have taken the liberty.”

“Ay, ay,” said Dawkins. “According to what I said. Which was,” says he, turning to Pomfrett, “that I hadn’t no objections to one or two respectable merchants of this here city seeing the thing, but I wouldn’t make it generally public—not generally—for reasons good. But you shall see for yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your opinion, if you’ll be so good.—Fetch aft the bottle, Hookey.”

Gamaliel lit a lamp, and for the first time we saw plainly what manner of man was our mariner. His little eyes gleamed under a penthouse brow, tufted with grey hair, from a broad face tanned mahogany-colour, his mouth very wide, shutting with a square jaw. He was dressed in a fine blue coat with brass buttons and a brocaded waistcoat. But, the buttons were tarnished, the clothes were soiled, and fitted him ill, folding in deep creases upon his massive figure, as though they had been made for another man. His great hands, tattooed and knotted and scarred, loosely clasped together upon the table before him, would alone have marked him for a sailor. But, what kind of a sailor? Mariners were plentiful in Bristol; we should know the marks of them by heart; but this gentleman had something in addition—some latent, yet unmistakable quality which we could not name. It was not only the strong impression he disengaged that Mr Dawkins, mariner, would be a dangerous man to anger; there was more than that. As his little eyes, deep-set in the shadow, caught a sparkle of the lamplight and gleamed at us, and his wide mouth curved in a smile, wrinkling his brown chin, we knew very well that there lurked a whole secret history, and a kind of menace, behind that crafty, good-humoured visage. Yet we were not daunted; rather, we were attracted by Mr Dawkins.

“You see,” said Gamaliel, going to a corner cupboard, “I am what I may term a confidential agent in such little matters; this same curiosity being of some value, why, Mr Dawkins gives it to me to take care of when ashore. The beach is a more dangerous place to seamen, Mr Pomfrett, if you’ll believe me, than——”

“Here, stow that, Hookey,” interrupted Mr Dawkins. “Your tongue’s too long by half, my lad. Let’s see the booty.”

Gamaliel placed on the table a round-bellied Dutch flask, the mouth tied over with canvas. Inside was a brown and crumpled scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins cut the string with a clasp-knife, which he stuck beside him in the board, shook out the paper, spread it flat on the table, and bent over it with an eager attention.

“Well, now,” remarked Gamaliel, “a person might think as you’d never seen that curiosity afore, to look at you, and you bringing it thousands of leagues across the sea in your own chest.”

Dawkins, unheeding, continued to study the paper. “That’s it, sure enough,” said he, presently. “Here you are, sirs—a ven’rable relic of good old days.” He pushed the paper across the table. This is what we read:

“Capt. Grammont to Capt. de Graaf.

“Cozumel Is. August 7, 1686.

“Wee having taken the towne of Merida neare Campeachy and got much booty the barke being overladen burried silver pigges and the rest of the plate at a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocke where the stream flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay. You shall know the place by the felled tree bridging the stream above itt between two groves of acajou trees a cross-cut on two or three. Wee purpose to go to Tortuga there to meet you if God will.”

This singular communication ended with a totally illegible signature and a flourish in another hand.

“Where did you find this?” demanded Pomfrett.

“Where but on the island—island of—the island, as I were saying,” replied Mr Dawkins, with an uneasy glance at Gamaliel, whose watchful countenance turned from one to the other as the conversation went on. “Me and two more, what’s dead now, we found it, a-coming ashore for wood and water for Her Majesty’s ship Ranger. And so it happened,” he ended, abruptly.

“But I don’t understand. Why, the date’s 1686—twenty-two years ago. And who were Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf? Spin the yarn, man,” cried the impatient Pomfrett.

“The captains was buccaneers both, I reckon,” returned Dawkins, with more assurance. “And we come ashore, all as I was saying, for”—with deliberation—“to wood and to water—Her—Majesty’s ship—Ranger. Me and a man called Ratsey, and another called Magnes. Both dead, now. And cruising about the island, if you understand, we comes upon one of them big crosses as the old buccaneers used to set up at a place of rendezvous, when they wished for to leave instructions to a sister ship, or what not. A spar and a yard lashed cross-wise, if you understand; and you march ten paces north and then you dig, and there’s the bottle. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”

Gamaliel nodded. “Well,” continued the adventurer, somewhat confirmed in his assurance, “we, happening to have heard of the custom, did so. And there’s the bottle. Stab me dead where I sit, if that ain’t the bottle.”

“And where was this, did you say?” Pomfrett was quite eager by this time.

“On the island—port of call for buccaneers, I reckon.”

“Yes, but what island?”

“Don’t it say?” demanded Mr Dawkins, irritably. “There, on the paper, where you’re a-looking?”

“Oh!—Cozumel Island,” said Pomfrett, referring to the script.

“That’s it—Cozumel. A man,” said Mr Dawkins, with a defiant glance at Gamaliel, “cannot carry in his head all the names of all the islands in the South Seas, which is thick as peas with ’em. Ain’t that so, Hookey?”

“To be sure,” assented Gamaliel, smoothly.

“And when did you find this, Mr Dawkins?”

Dawkins looked at Gamaliel.

“A matter of a year ago, wasn’t it?” said Gamaliel.

“Sure enough,” said Dawkins. “That were it—a year ago.”

“Why did you leave the Ranger?” I asked; for, at this time, when England was at war with both France and Spain, men were scarce aboard ships-of-war, and not lightly let go.

“She paid off in Jamaica,” answered Dawkins. “And I come home in the Gentle Susan, merchant ship. The other two, Ratsey and Magnes, as I was speaking of, they died on the v’yage.”

“Now, perhaps you can guess, Mr Pomfrett,” Gamaliel cut in, “why I was anxious to show this singular find to your good uncle. We all know there’s treasure scattered up and down the South American coasts—well, it seemed to me, here was a rare chance to pick some up. And why not your uncle, as well as another? Nothing in it, perhaps, but still, a chance. What do you think, Mr Pomfrett?”

“I should think that after twenty-two years there’d be mighty little left.”

Mr Gamaliel appeared to consider this proposition as something strikingly novel. “Dear me,” said he. “Well, I expect you’re right, sir. But I’ve been thinking over the matter and putting two and two together, as you may say, until I half thought there might be something in it after all. Captain Grammont and Captain de Graaf was brother-buccaneers—blood-brothers sworn. That’s history. Now, after taking Campeachy in Yucatan together, in 1686—same date, see you, as the writing—Grammont put to sea and never came back any more. And somewhere about that time, Captain de Graaf entered the service of the French government and helped to put down piracy—and none better for the job, I should reckon. That’s history, too. Well, I take it that after Grammont took Merida, as the writing says, and left that there message for de Graaf, he was cast away with all hands. For it’s history, likewise, that he was never heard of any more. He didn’t know, you see, when he wrote that letter, as how de Graaf had turned his coat. Which was why de Graaf never fetched up at the port o’ call on Cozumel Island, and so never got the letter. Consequently——” He paused. Dawkins was regarding him, I thought, with a certain admiration.

“You mean,” said Pomfrett, “that the silver’s there now?”

“I put it to you, is it likely to be found without the clue? I’ll wager a piece of eight to a penny it wouldn’t,” returned Gamaliel.

“Spoken like a printed book, Hookey, strike me dumb if it ain’t,” observed Mr Dawkins. “That’s the way of it, sure enough. The plunder’s there, I’ll warrant. On’y, where’s the ship to carry it away?”

“The ship? Ah, well, that’s another p’int altogether,” said Hookey Gamaliel, with a cunning grin. “At any rate, Mr Pomfrett, you’ll have something to tell your uncle. A little story and a relic of the old buccaneers, no less. ’Tis singular how things do fall out; but when a man’s been down to the sea in ships, as I have, why, he ceases to marvel at anything. There’s wondrous things in the deep.”

He was running on with his glib Jew’s tongue, when Pomfrett rose to go.

“A little sitting at the feet of Gamaliel is enough,” said he, when we were out in the foggy dark of the alley. “What a yarn, eh? Do you believe it? I’ve half a mind to. There’s something queer about Mr Dawkins; do you think he’s a pirate himself? I tell you what, come round to the back, and we’ll have another look at ’em without their knowing.”

Pomfrett was better acquainted with the byways of Bristol than I, who was born there. We plunged into the black alley that led behind the Burning Bush. It branched left and right, covert for the hunted of the press-gang. Into the tavern by the back door we crept, and into a side room to the right hand. A tall press and a scrutoire were dimly discernible; it was here, apparently, that Gamaliel sat at his accounts, with an eye upon his customers, for a breast-high partition separated the chamber from the front room we had just quitted. Red curtains were drawn between the ledge of the bulkhead and the ceiling, and we spied upon the pair through a rift in the drapery.

“No prey, no pay. Keep to the rules, you crimping swab.” Mr Dawkins filled the room with his bellowing.

“As you please, Jemmy,” returned Gamaliel’s reedy voice. “I know the rules as well as you, I reckon. You get no more, without you pay for what you got—nor you don’t get that, neither.”

“Now, I ask you fair and candid,” grumbled Dawkins, “have I got a guinea piece in the wide world? You know better than that, Hookey. Here! Hands off that bottle!”

Dawkins jumped to his feet, leaning forward upon the table, his open knife poised on his lifted palm, as Gamaliel caught up the bottle, replaced it swiftly in the cupboard, and turned the key.

“Put down that knife, Jemmy,” said Gamaliel, composedly. “No good ever come of quarrelling among shipmates. Come! Take another glass, and we’ll talk it over comfortable and polite, as gentlemen should.”

He poured out a tot of rum, and Mr Dawkins, with a very ugly look, sat down again.

“I’ve no objections to a amicable conference, not I,” said Dawkins. “But stakes on the table, I say.”

“Why, of course,” said Gamaliel. “Put down your pretty ring, then, and I put down the bottle.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” said Dawkins. Nevertheless, he moistened his finger and pulled off his ring.

It shone and winked like a star upon the rough board, a great ruby set in brilliants. Gamaliel set the bottle beside it.

“Now,” said Dawkins, “put a price on what you done, Hookey.”

“Oh, well, we shan’t quarrel over the price,” said Gamaliel, amiably. “We haven’t come to the dividend yet. Say a hundred pieces of eight, and I hold the ring as bond.”

“Why, you shark, the ring’s worth five times that,” cried Dawkins. “And I wouldn’t sell it, neither.”

“It’s only security, Jemmy—only a matter of form,” said the Jew.

“Well, you give me a receipt, and I hold the bottle,” said Dawkins.

“And mighty little use to you, by what I heard to-night,” returned Gamaliel. “But please yourself, Jemmy. I reckon you’ll do better next time.”

“All’s one for that,” said Dawkins. “Agreed. I take the bottle.”

He laid a hand on the bottle, and Gamaliel reached for the ring. But Dawkins was too quick for him. He snatched up the ring, clapped it into his mouth, and sprang back, his knife shining in his hand.

“Now stand quiet, Hookey,” said he, stowing the bottle inside his vest. “I could wipe the floor with two such as you, and never sweat over it. What! You wouldn’t take the word of a gentleman o’ fortune, wouldn’t you? And a Jew, too, was it! Mother of Moses! Well, now you got to, d’ye see? A hundred pieces of eight, was it?—how cheap you work, Hookey, to be sure.”

He made towards the door, and we crept out of the house, and winding in and out the net-work of alleys, we gained my lodging.

II
We set our Hands to a Christian Enterprise

Brandon Pomfrett and I discussed the story of the bottle; it seemed improbable enough; yet the letter of the old pirate captains ran in our minds like a song. I had read the history of the old buccaneers, as recounted by Mr John Esquemeling, the Dutchman, and translated into French and English—each translator causing the heroes of his own nationality to shine predominant over the others—and there was nothing in the records to contradict the sailor’s account. True, it seemed unlikely that the signal cross should remain unremarked for more than twenty years on a coast infested by pirates; but, on the vast and wild shores of Yucatan, the thing was still possible. Brandon swore he would persuade his uncle, the wealthy Brandon Pomfrett, of Bristol, to fit out a privateer, and send him in her to lift the treasure. The nephew had constantly urged the uncle to invest money in the privateering business, which, in those days, was no uncommon speculation; but Uncle Brandon had as constantly refused. The enterprise, said he, was too full of risk; there was no security; and, whereas you might fall across the right sort of merchant bottoms, conversely, you might not; while Frenchman or Spaniard might sink you in the deep sea, or a storm might cast you away. But now, argued Brandon the younger, whose one desire was to escape from his desk, there was something definite to put before the old man; the thing was as safe as going to church; out you went, dug up the silver, and brought it home, picking up any little ships that Providence might think fit to leave in your way. So Brandon, bubbling with expectation, went to tackle his uncle.

It was about a week later that one of those days befell when the schoolmaster flags at his post and the scholars seem possessed of the devil. He wrestles in vain; virtue, for the time, has gone out of him; he knows it, and the boys know it; and all is a steaming welter of cries, tears, gleeful disorder, and ineffectual onslaughts. Suddenly came an ominous hush; every eye was turned upon a burly figure, who stood by the door, hat in hand, surveying the youngsters with an amiable grin. It was Dawkins.

“Master Winter,” says he, in his thundering voice, with a salute, “they told me you was here, and I made so bold as to invade the sanctuary of learning, as you may say. I have the honour to bring you a letter, sir, from Mr Brandon Pomfrett.”

He rolled across the floor, in the dead silence, and handed me a packet.

“Now, if you’ll be so good as to read that there despatch, Master Winter, for I’ve promised to carry the answer to Mr Pomfrett, I’ll take command of the ship in the meanwhile, so’s you can fix your mind on the business, clear and easy.”

He picked up a battered college-cap from the floor where some rascal had flung it, and set it askew on his huge, grizzled head. The boys broke into a shout of laughter. Dawkins stepped up into the master’s desk and rapped it smartly with the cane.

“Si-lence in the ranks!” he roared. You might have heard him at the docks. He stood leaning forward, his hands on the desk, glaring upon them. They subsided on the instant, for the first time that day.

“Now,” said Mr Dawkins, standing upright. “Pay attention! Come! You done a gross dereliction of duty, but perhaps you don’t know that you done it. I’ll give you a chance. What’s the word when the captain steps on the quarterdeck? Not a answer? Well, I’ll tell you, this once. Stand to attention!” he bellowed. “Stand up!”

The roomful of bewildered youngsters stood up.

“Silence!” Mr Dawkins, with a formidable frown and shake of the head, stepped down from the master’s desk, and began to pace the floor in front of the attentive ranks, his big, tattooed hands thrust into his waistcoat pockets. What, I thought, if one of the school guardians were to come in, to find this outrageous mariner stalking to and fro, a broken mortar-board over one eye, my cane stuck under his arm, and Mr Henry Winter standing by, helpless?

To make an end of this silly business, I broke open the packet, which contained a letter from Brandon Pomfrett. “Glory be to God, my uncle hath consented!” he wrote. “Come to see him at once. As for your schoolmastering, fling it over the hedge. I have something better for you safe in hand.”

I scarce hesitated an instant. “Mr Dawkins,” I began. He turned short upon me.

“How now, shipmate?”

There was a laugh at the back of the room, checked as Dawkins faced about.

“Who laughed there?” he thundered. “What! Can’t two gentlemen talk on the quarterdeck, without disturbance by a mess of tallow-faced young swabtails like you! Let me see a smile, and I’ll cut a smile on that boy that’ll last a month!”

Shaking his head and grumbling, Dawkins turned again to me.

“I will come,” said I. “Tell Mr Pomfrett I will come!”

“And that’s good news, too, I’ll warrant,” cried Dawkins. “Why, we shall be shipmates yet, I’ll lay a dollar. Both masters, we are, too, and there’s a curi’s thing to reflect upon,—sailing-master and schoolmaster. We shall be a pair of brothers, I reckon, in less than no time. Now,” said Mr Dawkins, facing the boys with a formidable visage, “as to this here crew of yours, master. Would you consider it wisdom to flog the lot? Or would you, otherwise, consider a spree ashore, and a scramble for silver money”—he jingled the coins in his pockets, frowning horribly—“as doing good, in a general way of speaking?”

“Dismiss, boys. And a holiday to-morrow.”

Dawkins flung his college-cap to the ceiling, and the cane after it, and led the cheering. They crowded about him; and with a little boy astride of his shoulders, a big boy dragging at either sleeve, the whole crowd poured forth into the playground, where Dawkins began to toss coins among them by handfuls. The worthy mariner had found means to replenish his purse, it seemed, since last we met.

Upon the following evening I was seated at dinner with Mr Brandon Pomfrett, his nephew, and his sister Deborah. Pomfrett the elder was a square, stern old gentleman of sixty, with prominent nose and chin. His little grey eyes looked directly at you; his wide, thin lips never relaxed. A man, you would say, upright, dogmatic, severely kind, and pretty dull company withal. His sister Deborah was a straight-backed widow lady, with beautiful white hair. In her first youth she had espoused a wealthy old Greek, Constantine Adrianopoulo by name, who did not long survive the ordeal. You cannot go about saying Adrianopoulo; and the Greek’s respectable relict was never known otherwise than as Mrs A. With Brandon Pomfrett the elder I could converse, for a short time, with comparative comfort. But Mrs A. was extraordinarily repellent. She had the sallow skin that goes with dark eyes, high cheek-bones, and a club-nose; she spoke very gently; she was scrupulously courteous, rigidly pious, fervently Protestant; she gave much labour and money to the poor; and still contrived to infuse into all she said and did a spice of malice, an after-taste of venom. As for Brandon the younger, he hated his aunt. Between these portentous elders sat their nephew, with his amiable fair face and big blue eyes. His parents were dead; his Uncle Brandon had thought it his duty to adopt the boy, and, accordingly, he adopted him. Had his duty told him, instead, to drown young Pomfrett like a kitten, it is probable that he would have arranged the stone about his neck with precisely the same emotions, neither more nor less.

“Well, Mr Winter,” said Mr Pomfrett, with his wooden geniality, which suggested that Mr Pomfrett had said to himself, once for all, There are times when it is my duty to be genial, and I will, “I have, as I daresay Brandon has told you, agreed to accede to his wishes, and to send him to sea.”

“It is always a good thing, do you not think so, Mr Winter, to give a young man a fresh opportunity,” said Mrs A. “A change may work wonders.”

“So, sir,” Mr Pomfrett went on, “my nephew goes as owners’ agent in a privateer we are fitting out for the South Seas. To be more precise, Mrs A. is fitting out the bark. I shall put in but little of my own. And although there are a few other merchants interested in the venture, their shares are but small. The enterprise is really Mrs A.’s.”

“It is the bounden duty of a professing Christian—provided that God has blessed him with the means—to come to the help of his country, and especially of the Protestant Church, at such a time as this,” observed Mrs A., firmly.

I learned, afterwards, that Uncle Brandon had counselled his sister not to risk her money; but the old lady was greedy of riches, and obstinate as flint. She had taken a whim to pick up that silver—there was an end of discussion.

“Brandon, you see, Mr Winter, is become, virtually, his aunt’s trustee,” observed Mr Pomfrett. He had a way of enunciating the most commonplace sentiment with a sort of unctuous relish, which might have been pardoned him if he were ever witty. “Yes,” said Mr Pomfrett. “Yes. Trustee of Mrs A.”

“’Tis not the money,” said Mrs A., “but the idea; and that is a great trust for a young man.”

All this solemn talk was but leading up to the reason why I had been called into conference, which was, to offer me the berth of assistant, or clerk, to the owners’ agent. I fancy that Brandon had made me out to be his mentor, his unshaken pillar of morality. At all events, he was to be the first trustee; and Harry Winter, it appeared, was the second. I took the night to consider the matter. No need to tell of my doubts and hesitations—I accepted the berth. Books, I thought then—as, indeed, I think now—make the best half of life; nevertheless, a man should acquaint himself with the other. And the next day the agent and his clerk attended the meeting of the owners and officers of the enterprise.

In the high, sombre hall of the Guild to which Mr Pomfrett belonged we sat about a long table, covered with a dark-blue cloth, and set with pens, ink, paper, and sand. Mr Pomfrett sat in the great carved chair at the head of the table; Mrs A. sat next her brother, her negro boy, a silver collar about his neck, standing behind her; and a dozen or so of Bristol merchants were ranged on either side of the table. Below them were the captain and officers of the Blessed Endeavour. And among these was Mr Dawkins.

We were met together to draw up the Articles of Agreement. As soon as the company was assembled, Mr Pomfrett arose from his chair, and everyone disposed themselves to listen. There was a short pause. The yellow light, filtering through the small-paned windows, duskily illumined the neat powdered heads of the audience, all turned one way, and threw into strong relief the speaker’s rugged features. Mrs A.’s bony face, with the cavernous eyes, looked like the face of a corpse. From the deep shadow of the panelled walls dim old portraits of dead merchants contemplated their successors, playing the same game as themselves had fattened on.

“Is he going to open with a prayer?”

Brandon looked at me as though I had whispered blasphemy. There was nothing of levity about the owners’ agent.

“My friends,” began Mr Pomfrett, skilfully compromising between “Gentlemen,” a form of address which would have slighted Mrs A., and “Ladies and gentlemen,” which was inadmissible, since there was but one lady there, “my friends, it cannot but be a satisfaction to your minds, as it is to my own, to reflect upon the change—the great change—which has of late years passed upon the nature of such an enterprise as that which we are met together to inaugurate to-day. Before the Peace of Ryswick was concluded in the year of our Lord 1697, there was a singular and lamentable lack of distinction between privateering, which may be described as a legitimate form of trading under the conditions of necessity imposed by warfare, and buccaneering, or piracy, a brutal, detestable, and unlawful mode of aggrandisement practised by private persons. Doubtless the French, who were then leagued with us against the Spaniard, did very much to lead our English captains astray in the matter.” A murmur of applause, in which the voice of Mrs A. was fiercely audible. “Be that as it may, with the spread of true religion, and with the Frenchman as enemy instead of ally, a happier and more righteous state of things has come about. The privateer goes forth, with the sanction and under the approval of the crown, to repair, by her private exertions, those ravages inflicted by the papist on the commerce of this country. Though she goes armed, she goes not to shed blood. She does but go, sword in hand, to redress the balance of—the balance,” said the orator, after a moment’s consideration, “of the world’s justice.” More applause. “The taxes,” continued Mr Pomfrett, with some approach to animation, “imposed upon us in war-time are little short of ruinous. What is our remedy? It is an old maxim of economy to pay your expenses out of the enemy’s coffers. This, then, is the business of the privateer. She is to capture the merchant bottoms of the enemy, and to appropriate the cargo, and, if advisable, the ship. The crew and passengers are left unharmed.”

Here an old gentleman with a fat white face was understood to enquire, what happened if the enemy’s ship would not yield without fighting?

“In that case,” replied Mr Pomfrett, “force must be used. Any bloodshed that may occur is not to be taken as the fault of the assailant. But I believe the case is rare.”

“Sir,” said the old gentleman, “I rejoice to hear it.” He leaned back in his chair and stared fixedly at me, as if challenging me to find another meaning in his words. I glanced at Dawkins. That astute mariner sat with his hands folded on the table and his eyes cast down.

“I understand, sir,” said a very tall, stooping man, with a hanging underlip, “that the prisoners of the captured vessel are sometimes turned adrift. I would ask, sir, what becomes of these persons, who are perhaps far out at sea and deprived of victuals.”

“I refer you, sir, to Captain Shargeloes,” returned Mr Pomfrett. “He has sailed on the private account, and has experience.”

The captain, a lean, loose-jointed, swarthy man, with a lively dark eye, seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question; but it may have been that he was not a ready speaker. “How should I know, sir?” said he. “Becomes of them? I never saw what became of them. I never took it I had any concern with that—eh? They have their victuals—ship’s victuals, biscuit, fish—unless we happen—eh? to want them ourselves. Becomes? They go home, or they go to the bottom.”

There was a short silence. Mrs A. whispered something to her brother.

“I have to remind the company,” said Mr Pomfrett, aloud, “that we are dealing with papists—the worst foes of mankind. In setting them, if captured, adrift, we deliver them into the hands of the Almighty, to whom vengeance belongs. Every ship taken is thus a service done to the cause of true religion.”

“Speaking of religion, I would ask,” said a merchant with a purple nose, in a rich, thick voice, “is there a chaplain appointed?”

“A chaplain will be appointed, if a suitable clergyman can be found,” said Mr Pomfrett. “In any case, morning and evening prayer will be conducted on board.”

These important preliminaries concluded, we settled to discuss the constitution of the council for directing the affairs of the Blessed Endeavour. Briefly, the chief officers formed the council, with the captain as president, with casting vote, “to determine all matters and things whatsoever that may arise, or be necessary for the general good, during the whole voyage.” The constitution, framed on the customary lines, was speedily agreed to and signed by every shareholder in the venture. The names of the chief officers were then read out: John Shargeloes, captain; Brandon Pomfrett, Jr., owners’ agent; Henry Winter, his assistant; William Dawkins, master and pilot, being well acquainted with the South Seas. There were also a quartermaster, a chief mate and second mate, coxswain of the pinnace, gunner and eight men, called the gunner’s crew; carpenter, boatswain and his mate, cooper and his assistant, ship’s steward, sailmaker, smith and armourer, ship’s corporal, officer’s cook, and ship’s cook. All these, besides their salaries, had a right to certain shares, pro rata, in all plunder. Each man of the crew also had his proper share, with shares for disablement. In case of death, the dead man’s share went to his next of kin. A Book of Plunder was to be kept by the owners’ agent, and attested by the ship’s officers. Here it is necessary to distinguish. Technically speaking, the owners had no part in plunder, as such. Certain things were classed as plunder; these were divided among the ship’s company according to the proportion agreed upon. All the rest belonged to the owners absolutely. For example, bedding, clothes, gold rings, buckles, buttons, liquors, provisions, arms, ammunition, watches, wrought silver or gold crucifixes, prisoners’ movables generally, and wearing apparel were plunder; whereas, money, women’s ear-rings, loose diamonds, pearls and precious stones, bar gold or silver, called plate, were not plunder, but belonged to the owners. The regulations regarding plunder, with the penalties for concealment, were drawn up in an agreement, and signed by all the officers in council, on board the Blessed Endeavour. I make mention of the matter in this place for the sake of convenience. The definition of what was and what was not plunder was embodied in the officers’ agreement with the owners. As for the owners’ individual profits, they were, of course, determined by the proportion originally invested by each in the ship. By all accounts, Mrs A. stood to make a fortune.

When the signatures were affixed to the documents, Mr Pomfrett arose once more.

“My friends,” said he, “our business is now concluded. Speaking for the owners, I would say that they have willingly confided a considerable trust to the officers of the Blessed Endeavour, knowing that their office will be faithfully and truly discharged in all matters and things whatsoever. The enterprise is long and remote, and not devoid of danger; but you have a stout ship, well furnished with arms, both small and great, and well victualled. Captain Shargeloes is known to all of us as a competent and zealous officer. Mr Dawkins, master and pilot, has been twice round the world, and is well acquainted with the South Seas. It is to this gentleman, as I need hardly remind you, that we owe the news of the whereabouts of a large quantity of plate, whose acquisition is a main object of the voyage, and which takes off somewhat from the speculative character customable to such enterprises. It may be that the plate cannot be found—perhaps some voyager more fortunate than ourselves has already visited the spot. The matter is uncertain—to that we must make up our minds. But this is a world of uncertainty. Who knows,” said the orator, propounding the suggestion with his usual relish, as of one whose inner light burns uncommonly clear—“who knows how many of the owners, though we live peaceably at home, will meet around this board to welcome the officers of the Blessed Endeavour upon her return? These things are in the hand of the Almighty. To Him, officers of the Blessed Endeavour, we commend you.”

Captain Shargeloes stood up to reply. It was presently borne in upon my reluctant mind that the captain was somewhat in liquor. But it may have been, as I said before, that he was merely unready of speech. The captain was understood to remark that, in his experience, all things went very well, provided there were no mutiny. Mutiny. Mutiny, he felt bound to warn his owners, was the sunken rock which could not be avoided. There was a plot—you knew nothing of it—how could you know?—until the mine was sprung. Then, it was too late. The captain begged the owners to bear in mind that he could not be held responsible for plots; adding, with some obscurity, that he could always feel them in the air. I gathered that Captain Shargeloes had been peculiarly subject to plots (he spoke as though they were an illness) in his life. Not, he explained, that he expected a plot on this voyage—far from it; only, he thought it his duty to set plainly before the owners what, in his judgment, was the chief danger of the sea.

The company dispersing, some of us went down to the docks to look at our ship. The Blessed Endeavour lay at the wharf-side, amid a wilderness of shipping; a brigantine of two hundred and sixty tons burthen, carrying eighteen guns and two pateraroes, or mortars. Her complement was some ninety men, all told. The shipwrights had ceased work, and the Blessed Endeavour lay solitary, her decks littered with lumber, her yards swung all ways, her top-masts printed black upon the sky, where the fires of sunset were dying down. A lady of opulent figure was our brigantine, breasting the water like a swan, the long sweep of her sides scrolling up to the carved work of the taffrail, and the slanting windows and balustrades of the quarter-gallery. The glass of the windows shone like jewels in the coloured lights of the sky and the water, while spars and ropes and the swelling mass of the hull were black as ebony.

So it was that I saw for the first time the ship that was to chariot our fortunes. She lay there, very still in the thickening twilight, yet every leaping line of her was eloquent of strenuous action, of free movement upon great spaces. Here was no thing of rest, but a creature the nearest life man ever made—the life of wave and wind and star.

“And all along of an empty gin-bottle,” said a reedy voice, and there was John Gamaliel, drooping and smirking. “Wonderful how things come about, to be sure! But didn’t I say, now, as something might come of it? Why, Mr Dawkins has got his ship, so he has.”

III
In which the Blessed Endeavour is deprived of Direction both Spiritual and Temporal

There was no doubt that John Gamaliel had his profit out of the business. As Pomfrett’s assistant, the indents for stores and victuals passed through my hands; and Gamaliel’s signature became pretty familiar to me. The Jew, it presently appeared, supplied the most of the crew as well as the provisions. Tinkers, vagabonds, strolling fiddlers, country loobies, out-at-elbows clerks, negroes, and salted mariners: of such are the crews of ships; and all these did Gamaliel produce in due season. Going to and fro in Bristol, as I must in the first weeks of preparation, the Jew often accompanied me, beguiling me with endless stories of deep-sea voyagings. He told of the illimitable spaces of the sea, of a solitude inconceivable to the landsman, where the ship steals onward, day by day, for many weeks, until the faces of all on board are changed; “for they know,” said the Jew, “they are strangers in the secret places of the Almighty;” of the fated man in the ship’s company, the Jonah who brings bad luck, and who must be flung overboard, sooner or later; of the danger of having a clergyman aboard, for “God is jealous, he will have no priests on His sea;” of water-snakes, and sea-cows, and cannibal savages; of the casting away of vessels, beaten out of sight with a single wave, flung upon lee-shores, foundering on hidden rocks; of crews dying of thirst and scurvy, and eaten alive of worms; of derelict barks floating in mid-ocean, furnished with good water and provisions, and never a soul on board. He spoke with a kind of serious wonder, like a child; and I had to keep saying to myself that here was no untaught poet, but an agent-victualler of doubtful probity and a known crimp.

For convenience of transacting business, I lodged with Brandon Pomfrett at his uncle’s house; and to escape the tedium of Mr Pomfrett’s conversation, and the subtle irritation of Mrs A.’s dogmatism, we used to repair to the inn where Captain Shargeloes was lodging. I cannot say that I ever saw our skipper definitely drunk; on the other hand, I could not state, with any certainty, that he was ever sober. The captain was the easiest and most good-humoured of men; would drink and yarn with you for ever; but, at a certain point of intoxication, the word plot would invariably creep into his talk. Never, to be sure, was a poor seaman so plotted and caballed, by his account; owners, agents, officers, and crew—all were in a conspiracy, at one time or another. We learned to take leave of Captain Shargeloes at the word. I do not know how the notion became embedded in his mind; he had seen mutinies enough, and longshore conspiracies to cheat the guileless mariner of his own in plenty; but so had every skipper afloat. The truth was, I suppose, that he knew himself to be a simple man, destitute of natural cunning; so that he found himself, to his continual chagrin, no match for the sharks.

The notion of some plot a-foot began to stick in my own head, presently. Moreover, there was a certain unwholesome facility about the beginnings of our enterprise which I did not like. It was too easy to be altogether natural. A roystering mariner in a tavern, a glass bottle, a scrap of paper, a Jew fatally fluent of speech—and there were a tall ship fitting for sea, Mrs A.’s money shot into her, and Brandon and myself cut loose from our tedious, but safe, employments, and despatched to the ends of the earth. “Really, I am a lucky fellow,” says Brandon. “I know it, and am grateful for it. Everything’s in my favour, and there’s no doubt, as Mrs A. says—though I don’t care about her way of saying it—that it’s a great chance for a young man.” Well, I was uneasy; but I couldn’t for the life of me discover anything tangible to justify disquiet; unless it were the affair of the ship’s chaplain, which presently befell.

The clergyman was picked out from his native obscurity by the advice of Mrs A., who knew quite as much as was good for her about holy men. He was a thick, red-haired, hog of a man, was the Reverend Jeremiah Ramsbottom; a stupid, good-natured fellow, I thought him, when Brandon the younger brought him aboard the Blessed Endeavour, about three days before we sailed.

“What’s this?” says Mr Ramsbottom, catching up a handspike, and balancing the heavy bar like a walking-cane in his huge hand. “One could knock a man on the head with this,” says he, with a foolish grin. I saw Mr Dawkins eying the big man with unmistakable disfavour.

“Who’s that, then?” Dawkins asked me, when Brandon had taken the parson away. I told him, Mr Ramsbottom was appointed ship’s preacher.

“I’ll have no preachers aboard my ship,” says Dawkins, with an oath.

“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” I said.

“Ah, but it’s me that has to sail the ship,” returned Dawkins. “I’m sailing-master. I been shipmates with a clergyman before, and never again, says I to myself. Cross-currents, squalls, baffling winds, dead calms, water rotten—why, time and again, I would as lief as not a-run the blessed ship nose under, just to fetch up at the Golden Gates with my two hands on that there preachers’ neck-band. ‘Lord God,’ I’d say, humble on the quarterdeck, ‘I am but a sinful man, but grant me to take this Thy servant and toss him overboard off of a good lofty star, and I’ll go out of heaven quiet and orderly—ay, and glad to go.’”

“Well, why didn’t you, Mr Dawkins?”

“We keelhauled the holy man, and I reckon that was a surer way,” said Dawkins.

Now, to keelhaul a man is to lower him from the yard-arm on one side of the ship, haul him under the keel, and hoist him on the other side, several times. If he lose his senses, his executioners kindly wait until he recovers them, lest he should miss the full benefit of the discipline. After these expressions of animosity, I was surprised to remark Mr Dawkins consorting with the Reverend Jeremiah, apparently on the most friendly terms; and, with less astonishment, that upon several occasions the clergyman came aboard with a glazed eye and an uncertain footstep. But when, upon the day we were to sail, he was nowhere to be found, I understood. And Mr Dawkins kindly volunteered to take a search-party round the taverns, and if the parson were still undiscovered, the churches of Bristol city.

“What, and lose the tide?” quoth the captain. “And to-morrow Friday? No, sir. I’ve never cut sail on a Friday yet, and I wouldn’t do it for the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a Bible and a flag and the Church of England Prayer-Book, we’ll try to make out, Mr Dawkins.”

So that zealous officer had his way; we sailed without Mr Ramsbottom.

At eight o’clock of a fine summer evening the bells were chiming in the steeple of the great church, the town was wrapt in a golden haze, and the quays were moving with people, as we dropped down the river with the tide. Suddenly, the old city, changing its aspect and gesture as we receded, put on an expression of home. It was as though a piece of herself were detached and sent floating away—away to the inhospitable wilderness of the sea. The little group on the wharf that watched our departure dwindled to an indistinguishable blot, their waving kerchiefs tiny specks of white; the sound of the bells fell fainter and farther, rose and sank, and died away; the Blessed Endeavour was forth to seek her fate.

The second day out, a council of officers was held, to determine the port of call on the way to Yucatan. Our instructions were to proceed directly thither, leaving all attempt to take prizes until the question of the hidden silver was settled. Dawkins broke out at once, in his loud, domineering manner.

“I vote for Hispaniola,” says he. “For why? The provisions is rotten, I reckon, and there we can get the boucan and ruff-dried beef from the hunters.”

“I have had no complaint of the provisions, master,” says the captain, in a sudden heat of anger.

“Ah, well, you will,” returned Dawkins, composedly. “And a mutiny too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Where’s the agent?” shouted the captain. “Where’s Mr Pomfrett?”

“Sick in his berth,” said someone.

“Sick! I’ll have no officer sick aboard my ship,” fumed the captain. “Fetch Mr Pomfrett.”

We were lifting and dipping over the long swell of the Channel mouth. Brandon shot into the cabin on the back of a roller, and crumpled down into his chair, white and dizzy.

“What’s this I hear of the provisions, Mr Agent?”

“I haven’t seen any provisions since I came aboard,” Brandon answered, faintly.

The captain made a movement of impatience. “You said mutiny, I think, Mr Dawkins,” said he. “Mutiny! Let me tell you, sir, I have a short way with mutineers. I know how to deal with a plot.”

“That’s it,” said Dawkins. “On’y, if you feed the beasts with sound victual and plenty of it, why, they don’t think of nothing but their bellies. And so, d’ye see, they don’t mutiny. Therefore I says Hispaniola.”

“It’s a French island,” said the captain. “We don’t want to make a present of the ship to the enemy, sir.”

“I reckon,” said Dawkins, “the hunters would sooner sell beef than try to take a ship which they couldn’t do nothing with if they had it. But you know best, Mr Shargeloes, not a doubt about it.”

“Well, sir,” says the captain, mollified, “I vote for Barbadoes, as an English island. What do you think, Mr Agent?”

Mr Agent, being incapable of thought, chanced to side with the captain. When the votes were counted, it was Brandon’s vote that turned the scale. We were to go to Barbadoes.

“And as to mutiny, Mr Dawkins,” said the captain, harping on his dread aversion, “I should tell you that I do not like the word. It’s a dangerous word—an unlucky word at sea—eh?”

“I don’t value the word a penny,” says Dawkins. “Any word will do for me, Mr Shargeloes. I seen a many such”—thus did Mr Dawkins clear the sunken rock—“maroonings, knives going, and what not, but I never see much gained by it. It don’t frighten me. There’s things which frighten a man, and things which don’t, d’ye see? I reckon what scares me most,” said Mr Dawkins, simply, “is a poor old age a-drawing nigh with no money and no rations.”

Whether the captain liked it or not, there was discontent in the air. The salt pork was rotten, the stock-fish putrid, the biscuit worm-infested, and—worst of all—the beer was sour. Pomfrett cursed Gamaliel for a thief, as he was; but he might have discovered a fraud so gross and palpable before the victuals were shipped. Mr Brandon Pomfrett got his first lesson in the business of his office at the expense of the crew. For, in the cabin, we had store of hams, beef, tongues, cheese, and wine to last us nearly to the West Indies.

We had been a week at sea, when the boatswain came aft at the head of a deputation of some dozen seamen. He carried a steaming pannikin, which reeked like carrion.

“It ain’t our way,” said the boatswain, after presenting the mess to the captain, “to complain of the ship’s rations. But as to this here—well, there, we only asks you, sir, kindly to taste of it.”

The captain, holding the pannikin in his hand, continued to gaze silently at the boatswain and the uneasy, sullen mob behind that plaintive officer.

“Men,” said he, presently, “you know as well as I do that I have nothing to do with the victualling. You know that while we’re at sea we must eat what there is, good or bad, simply because there’s nothing else to be got. When we fetch up in port, I can promise you fresh provisions. Now go forward—and take this with you.” He would have returned the stinking tin to the boatswain, but the boatswain put his hands behind him and backed a step or two.

“Captain Shargeloes,” said he, “what you say is true and fair, when the whole ship’s company goes on short allowance. But now it is not so. Let the officers mess aft the same as what the seamen mess forward, is what we says, and we’ll go back to our duty, and say no more about it.”

“You’ll go back now, and smart,” says the captain, darkening. “This is a plot. I knew it. I see what you would be at, you——”

The boatswain made a rush forward, but Dawkins was too quick for him, striking him heavily on the head with a pistol-butt, so that he tumbled sideways. The rest of the mutineers hesitated a moment; the watch on deck, their wavering minds decided, probably, by the fall of the boatswain, came running aft; there was a scuffle, and the thing was over, the deputation being hustled below into irons. The captain was still holding the pannikin in his hand. He looked at it, hove it over the rail, and spat after it. Then he invited the intrepid Dawkins to drink with him, and the two, going below, stayed there a long time.

The boatswain and his following were flogged. They had six dozen apiece, and were disabled for a fortnight afterwards. When their backs were healed enough to bear their coats, they were had upon the quarterdeck, where they made humble submission; and the captain forgave them.

“I knew there was a plot brewing,” says he, “before ever we were clear of the river. You can’t hide it from me, my men—don’t hope to do it. I can smell it—smell it in the air, like a dashed thunderstorm. Now all’s clear again—I know that without your telling me. I would have every jack-rabbit of you swinging at the yard-arm else, as sure as sunrise.”

The captain’s words were bold enough; but there was something about the man that told another story. His long, lean neck, like a fowl’s, twisted uneasily at every sound as he paced the quarterdeck; his brown fingers were for ever hovering at his mouth; he was continually drinking. I believe Captain Shargeloes to have been as brave a man as ever stepped; but he was haunted by the ineradicable conviction that the world was in a conspiracy against him, and weakened by the suspicion that his wits were dull. I say that he was brave; I believe he never ceased to combat this fatal prepossession; it was the real Captain Shargeloes fighting the false. Liquor was his chief weapon—the worst he could have chosen. And, lest he should want encouragement, Mr Dawkins was ever at his elbow to suggest a tot of rum, a drop of French brandy, a glass of Schiedam. Dawkins had a head like the bitts; he was seldom the worse for liquor; but the captain grew as limp as a swab. You could see that his burden grew heavier upon him; but he stuck to it with a kind of hopeless patience.

“You young men should be happy,” he once said, addressing Pomfrett and myself. Pomfrett looked at him with his serious blue eyes. Brandon was asking himself, conscientiously, if he were happy, or not.

“You don’t command a water-logged ship,” continued Shargeloes, gloomily. “I mean,” he explained, “you have no wife and no nine children depending on you. Not that that would matter, if a man had a chance. But what chance do these owners give their captains?—saving your presence, Mr Agent. The ship stuffed with rotten provisions, the crew a set of mutinous rake-hells, nothing square, nothing aboveboard, the whole voyage a speculation, and the captain responsible for all.”

“What do you suspect, sir?”

“I? Nothing,” returned Shargeloes. “Who said I did? But I know what stuff I have to deal with, and, I tell you, I’m tired of it, tired to death. Well, I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again,” he maundered. “And mark my words, five-and-twenty years I’ve been to sea, and this voyage is all or nothing; it’s fortune or a lee-shore for life this time.”

“How did Captain Shargeloes get the command?” I asked Brandon, when we were alone.

“He put money in the venture—all his savings, so he told my uncle. He has the name of a good sailor. I can’t think what’s wrong,” said Brandon. “As to being happy, what about the owners’ agent? There’s responsibility, if you like! The skipper’s only got to sail the ship, and Dawkins does that for him. Dawkins is all taut and trim,” says the agent, who was becoming nautical in his language. “His cargo doesn’t shift.”

Indeed, the master was a popular man aboard. The men said, openly, that Mr Dawkins was the only officer who had spoken for them at the council, advising the captain to put into port (at Hispaniola or elsewhere) for fresh victuals. He was free with his tongue, and very brisk with a handspike; but that was all in the way of business. The captain might swear as he pleased; the crew had small respect for their commander. “Dawkins, he’s a good bit o’ stuff. He oughter been captain, Dawkins ought. As for Charley-goes, he’s no better than bilge.” So went the talk in the forecastle.

When we reached the latitude of thirty-nine degrees and forty minutes, the customary dreary and ridiculous baptismal ceremonies were observed. The captain had fallen sick of a fever and taken to his bed. The master’s mate had blackened his face with soot from the galley, attired himself in a white gown made of an old sail patched upon with scarlet blotches, and a tall red cap. With a sword of lath in his hand and a pannikin of ink at his side, he called before him the green hands, one by one. They kneeled before him, while he made the sign of the cross upon their foreheads in ink, and struck them smartly over the shoulders with his wooden sword. A bucket of water was then flung over them, and the baptism was done. The regenerate must each give a bottle of brandy—or the price of one—for the benefit of the old seamen, standing the bottles round the mainmast. The rout was in full swing—the red cap of the executioner burning like a flame in the strong glare of the sun, amid the mob of glistening, grinning faces; the decks awash, cries, oaths, and laughter sounding out upon the empty sea—when, from my station on the poop, leaning on the rail, I saw a figure stealthily emerge from the cabin doors immediately beneath. It was the captain. Stripped to the waist, a naked cutlass in his hand, he stood for a moment in the shadow of the poop, staring at the tumult. Then he stole to the side, and before I could cry out to Dawkins, who was standing by the wheel, he had sprung upon the rail, dropping his cutlass, and dived overboard. The alarm was given, but in the disorder it was several minutes before a boat was lowered. They pulled about for an hour; but the captain was never seen again.

IV
A Letter of Introduction

It is to be supposed that poor Captain Shargeloes mistook, in his fever, the noise and tumult of the merrymaking for the explosion of that conspiracy which had haunted him so grievously; and rushing on deck, intent to die sword in hand, the sight of the great cool plain of heaving waters allured his heated senses beyond resistance. He slipped over the side like a fish, and was gone in a moment. There was no more fooling. A death aboard, to the seaman’s mind, is very likely to bring ill luck; and the men, gathered forward, set quietly to drink themselves full, in accordance with immemorial privilege. Had a storm overtaken us, the whole ship’s company might have gone to join their captain that night—wherever he was. But the sailor concludes a kind of informal treaty with Providence. “I take my chance with your storms and foul weather when I’m sober; I pay my respects morning and evening; but I must be let to drink in peace on the days appointed.” On the whole, the agreement seems to be reasonably well observed on both sides. We ran all night before the favouring trade, beneath the velvet hollow of the heavens and the million million flashing stars; and the seamen lay snoring in heaps upon the deck.

At the council of officers held next day, Mr Dawkins was elected captain, amid universal approval. Someone then opened again the question of touching at Hispaniola instead of Barbadoes; for—it was most unfortunate—there was no doubt but that the men were half-starved.

“If you’ll give a look at the ship’s books, you’ll observe that p’int was settled once before,” said Dawkins. “And settled, in a council, is settled, I reckon.”

It was remarked that Dawkins had himself suggested Hispaniola on the former occasion.

“Yes, I did so. And for why? Because I reckoned it might save a mutiny. Well, you knew better than me—what have sailed the South Seas for twenty year—most on you, by your account of it, and a mutiny we had. Now it’s over, and the course is set to Barbadoes, and to Barbadoes this ship goes,” says Dawkins, stubbornly.

“Put it to the vote, captain,” said one.

Captain Dawkins arose from his seat, leaned forward on the table, supporting himself on his hands, and glared upon us.

“Another word like that,” says he, “and I’ll clap you in the bilboes! You elected me captain, all on you. I didn’t ask you for to do it, I didn’t want it, nor I don’t; but you done it free and spontaneous. Now, I reckon I know my duty, and, what’s more, I know your duty. Enough said. Gentlemen, this council is dis—solved!”

There was an end of opposition; it was not worth risking a quarrel on the point, with our formidable commander. At this time, Hispaniola lay some six hundred miles out of our course; but neither Brandon nor I understood at the time why Mr Dawkins put himself in such a heat. We were presently to discover the reason.

Meanwhile, Captain Dawkins served double rations to the crew, and crowded sail most extravagantly. As long as the trade-wind held we walked along at full seven knots, day and night, in safety. But when it dropped, we spread every stitch of canvas to catch the light airs; and then a blot no bigger than a man’s hand would rise on the sky-line to windward; the watch would be sent rushing aloft to shorten sail; and before they had done, the squall would burst shrieking upon us with a solid weight of wind and a blinding smother of water. Sails would be torn from the bolt-ropes with a noise of cannon, and a man or two, very likely, carried overboard. Then the storm would sweep away to leeward and the sun shine out; and out would go the sails again, the ship staggering and heeling through the surge. Those were dispiriting days for the landsman. There was never an hour when he could lie down to sleep without the dismal possibility of awaking in the next world. As for Dawkins, he scarcely quitted the deck. “You ever seen a ship sailed the way she ought?” he would say. “Well, I’ll show you, my son.”

But the exhibition roused no admiration in the conscientious breast of the owners’ agent. Pomfrett had been deeply mortified by the failure of the stores, for which he was responsible. He had put an innocent confidence in the honesty of Mr Gamaliel; and I have little doubt that the owners winked at the amiable Jew’s transactions, or they would never have set a green hand like Brandon to overlook the business. Gamaliel supplied the stores cheaper than anyone else, and that was all the pious merchants of Bristol cared for. The crew might starve to the bone and rot with scurvy,—crews did, as a rule—but the investors got their percentage, and the ship would come into port somehow. Meanwhile, the owners’ agent took upon himself to suffer along with the men. After the mutiny, and the boatswain’s challenge, Brandon would have no more of the cabin provisions. He had his rations brought from the forward galley; what was fit for the crew, said he, was fit for him. The officers called him a fool for his pains; they told him he was for currying favour with the mariners, and that he would die. But he kept his health by a miracle, for a dog would have turned from the putrid concoctions he fed on. As for the men, they merely added contempt to the dislike and suspicion in which they held the unfortunate agent. And now, on the top of his miseries, came the persuasion that Captain Dawkins was in danger of throwing away the ship by his reckless conduct of her. It is probable that, in his ignorance of the sea, Pomfrett saw more peril than there really was; and so I told him.

“Very likely,” said he. “I care nothing about that. I’m responsible, and I won’t have this foolish risk. I shall speak to Dawkins.”

“He’ll put you in irons. He’s a born pirate, you know as well as I.”

“He will not,” said Brandon. “I would run him through if he gave the order. It’s his business to sail the ship to the owners’ satisfaction.”

Mr Dawkins was pacing up and down the poop. Besides the pistol he always carried stuck in his belt, he had worn a sword since his election to the captaincy, and a double brace of pistols in a crimson silk scarf. Saluting the quarterdeck, Pomfrett went up to this formidable commander.

“I should be glad of a talk with you, sir,” said Brandon. “I have a word to say to you that won’t keep.”

“All the samey the provisions?” says Dawkins.

“And as unsavoury, I fear,” said Brandon, unmoved.

“And what may it be, now, Mr Supercargo? Give it mouth. What’s the complaints? I wouldn’t,” said Mr Dawkins, playfully, “give a fig for a super what hadn’t a cargo of complaints.”

“I have to say, sir, on behalf of the owners, that I am dissatisfied with your conduct of the ship, in one particular,” said Brandon, roundly.

“Was you, indeed?” said Dawkins, with unexpected mildness. “Dear me! And if I might make so bold, in what one particular, sir, do the cap’n dis—satisfy Mr Supercargo?”

Brandon explained.

“Well, now, you surprise me, you do, indeed,” said Mr Dawkins, with somewhat ominous levity. “I wasn’t aware of it, I do assure you. Why, I must take a reef on the main-s’l, I see that. I been all wrong. I reckoned the owners was wishful to get their ship into port as soon as might be; that was my mistake, d’ye see. And I take it very kind of you, Mr Pomfrett, to p’int it out. And on my own quarterdeck, too, by the bones of the deep!”

“Mr Dawkins,” said Brandon, stiffly, “I must request you to take this matter seriously. You will be good enough to understand that I am here to see that the owners’ interests are properly served. I have no wish to summon a council; but unless I find my wishes complied with, I shall have no choice but to do so.”

“Very well, Mr Supercargo. Depose me, is it? Well, if it must be, it must, I reckon. On’y, who’s to sail the ship?”

“Navigate her, do you mean? I will!” And Captain Dawkins looked a little blank at the retort. “Come,” Brandon added, “don’t let us quarrel, Mr Dawkins.”

“Quarrel!” said Dawkins, cheerily. “Not a mite of it. And I tell you what, Mr Pomfrett, there’s very few agents, as I’ve ever seen, as would have the marrow to do what you done. Why, they’d be afraid! But you—you don’t give a penny piece for the captain, not you. Duty is duty, says you, and you ups on the quarterdeck like a Queen’s admiral. I admire you, sir, I do, indeed. And I’ll bear your words in mind, don’t you fear. I shan’t forget, I shan’t.”

“You see,” said Brandon, afterwards, to me. “I told you so. Tackle a man face to face, and he listens. I believe Dawkins is a good man enough, only uneducated and a bit reckless. I thought I’d tell him I could navigate the ship, because he presumes on his being the only man aboard who can. I don’t think,” said the owners’ agent, “I shall have much more trouble with Dawkins.”

I was not so sure. I had seen Mr Dawkins’s blue-red visage darken to plum-colour, and his little eyes contract to pin-points, while his teeth showed as he grinned—and I was not so sure. But I thought it a pity further to harass the conscientious agent with my doubts. And a few days of quiet sailing brought us in sight of the low green island of Barbadoes. We dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, and Pomfrett went ashore to obtain, as the custom is, the Governor’s permission to purchase provisions, leaving me on board, occupied with business. He returned in the evening, having made all arrangements for the supplies to be had aboard upon the following day.

“May I never ship with a worser supercargo than yourself, Mr Pomfrett,” said Dawkins. “I never see a agent so smart with his duty, so help me! But it never does to drive a clipper bark too hard—why, you taught me that, so you did, Mr Pomfrett, now I come to think of it—and if you and Mr Winter would care to take a run ashore, these parts being new to you gentlemen, we would try to make out for a few hours without you.”

None who has not been to sea can comprehend the delight of getting ashore, though the voyage has been never so pleasant. The smell of the land, the firm earth underfoot, the sight of women-folk, and, above all, the taste of fresh food—these common sensations become extraordinary pleasures. We accepted the captain’s kindly offer with joy. Mr Dawkins gave us a letter of introduction addressed to one Mr Jevon Murch, who, said the captain, was a friend of his, and who lived on his plantation some few miles inland.

The moment we set foot on the quay we were surrounded by a mob of negroes, clamouring to be taken as guides.

“Take me, massa, take me,” shouted a huge buck negro, forcing his way through the crowd. “Me white man; don’t hab dese dirty black men, massa. Dirty black men, git ’way wid yer!”

The gentleman was as black as a boot; but I suppose he had a drop of white blood somewhere in his ancestry. We took him on that valuation. He brought us through the streets of white houses with green shutters, where noisy crews of black men were haling sugar-barrels as big as cottages down to the wharves, and out into the sugar-cane plantations. We walked along the narrow lanes, cut through the green groves, and on either side the slaves were hard at work in the fainting heat, the men extinguished beneath wide, shallow hats as big as a cart-wheel, with a little red button in the centre; the women clad in blue stuff, with gaudy handkerchiefs bound about their heads.

Here were Christian serfs as well as heathen: white men brought from England and sold like any black stuff from the Guinea coast, sweating under the eye and the whip of the overseer.

“It’s a crime and a disgrace,” said Pomfrett, whose simple soul was quickly aroused to indignation. “How can they bear it? Why don’t they mutiny? Why don’t they kill the planter? Why don’t they kill themselves? And what sort of persons are these planters, to make slaves of white men?”

“The same sort of persons as the citizens at home, who make slaves of black men,” I said. “The same as your respected relative, Mrs A., for example.”

“Not at all—not in the least,” cried the ardent Pomfrett. “The blacks are born to it. They’re never so happy as when they’re slaves.”

“Cap’n Morgan, he was slave on plantation,” put in the negro, cheerfully. “Then he buccaneer. Afterwards he Governor Jamaica.”

“And afterwards he died in prison,” said Pomfrett.

“Po’ man,” said the black. “Massa Murch, he one of Morgan’s men,” he added.

We were naturally eager, upon this information, to see one who had sailed under that renowned admiral of the old buccaneers; who had taken part, very likely, in the sack of Panama, and seen the cities of Maracaibo and Gibraltar put to ransom in the teeth of the whole Spanish fleet.

“Morgan was a Bristol man, too,” says Pomfrett. “That’s a coincidence. But Murch must be an oldish man; it’s over thirty years since Morgan took to honest courses. I wonder how Dawkins came to know him.”

“Dawkins is a pirate,” I said. “I always told you so.”

“Dawkins,” retorted Brandon, stoutly, “is a good man.”

We were come by this time to the entrance of an avenue of cedars, whose lofty aisle of dark green foliage framed, in a diminishing perspective, a squat white house with a wide verandah, crouched beneath a little hill of tropical foliage. Our negro stopped; his errand, he said, was done,—that was Mr Murch’s house. He stood shifting from one leg to the other, his white eyeballs glancing on every side, holding out his dingy paw for his fee, in a terrible hurry to be gone. As the money touched his palm he was off like an arrow.

“He doesn’t seem to relish the neighbourhood,” Pomfrett observed, staring after the fleeing figure. “It seems quiet enough.”

It was quiet, indeed. The breeze hummed in the vast, feathery tree-tops, the grasshoppers chirped, and the droning of the flies was like the turning of a wheel; but these monotonous sounds made but an undercurrent in the deep stillness. Not a soul was in sight. The low, secret-looking house with the green shutters stood to all appearance wholly deserted, as we approached. The whole place was noiseless as a dream. I had a fancy, indeed, that I was walking in a dream, as we came to the neatly raked sand in front of the verandah, upon which our footsteps made no sound, and noted the shuttered windows, and spied in vain for any sign of habitation. But Pomfrett had no such fancies.

“I suppose these people sleep in the day-time. We’ll make ’em rouse and bitt,” said he, and rapped smartly on the door.

It was opened with unexpected promptness by an old, white-haired negro. We asked him if Mr Jevon Murch were within. Instead of answering, the black opened his mouth and, gaping at us horribly, pointed down that red cavern. Our eyes following his gesture, we saw that his tongue had been cut out. Pomfrett had the letter of introduction in his hand. Still fearfully staring, he offered it mechanically to this nightmare of a negro, who took it, nodded, flashed a grin upon us, and shut the door in our faces.

We looked at one another, not without dismay.

“Oh, dear me!” said Pomfrett, with great gravity. “What next, I wonder?”

The hot silence settled thick about us, as we waited on the threshold.

V
Mr Murch’s Repentance

Presently the negro reappeared, motioned us within, and led us into a cool, gloomy room with a matted floor, sparely furnished with a table, a great carved settle, and a red earthenware water-jar, oozing a cold perspiration. The walls, of baked earth, or adobe, were two or three feet thick in the embrasure of the small window, which was fitted with an iron grille, curiously wrought. The square of the window framed a space of blinding sunshine, continually crossed and recrossed by darting, many-coloured flies. We had a few minutes in which to remark these things, before the heavy door opened, and there entered a tall old man, dressed in loose clothes of white linen. His complexion was of the colour of old mahogany, so that his eyes glinted light like steel, and his thick white hair and beard were as snow. With his strong projection of chin, line of forehead running sharply backward and upward, and upward slant of tufted eyebrow and long, narrow eye, there was at the first glance a certain viperine aspect about Mr Jevon Murch. The skin of his face was wrought into a net-work of fine lines, not only about the eyes, where the net was closest, but covering cheek and forehead.

“Mr Pomfrett,” said Mr Murch, bending his keen glance upon each of us in turn. He had a beautiful deep voice, like a bell.

Pomfrett signified that he was the person addressed.

“Ah! You are Brandon Pomfrett? And you, sir, are Henry Winter? Precisely. Well, gentlemen,” said Mr Murch, with stern deliberation, “I am sorry to see you here. But I have my duty to do, as you have yours.”

At this unexpected address, we stared in amazement.

“I surprise you,” said Mr Murch. “Or, rather, God surprises you. You shall never escape Him. He is ever in ambuscade. Did you think to avoid His arm by fleeing across the seas? Why, you witless boys, all the while ’twas His wind was blowing you to the place of repentance.”

We had no notion of what this extraordinary man might mean; but it seemed clear enough that the sooner we were out of his house the better.

“I fear,” said Brandon, politely, “there has been some mistake, sir. We have the honour to wish you good-day.” He made as if to go, but Mr Murch stood against the door, his hand upon the lock.

“As to a mistake, be sure, Mr Pomfrett, I will ascertain the rights of the business. Sir,” said Mr Murch, with great dignity, “I keep a clean ship here—no slaver. Meanwhile, sirs, I must ask you to accept my hospitality.” He slipped from the room, and we heard the bolt click. We were prisoners.

Of course, we tried to get out; and, of course, we failed. The door was of some dark, hard, foreign wood, inches thick; the window-bars were immovable. We discussed the situation. At first we were ready to conclude that Mr Jevon Murch was mad, since he was evidently sober; but the explanation seemed inadequate. Such were the hurry and disorder of our spirits, that it took us a long time to arrive at the conclusion which, to the reader, must appear fairly obvious. Mr Dawkins had sold us to his friend, Mr Murch, who would either keep us captive until the ship had sailed, or, what in those days was the more likely supposition, would enslave us to work on his plantation. Either way, the prospect did not smile. Either way, as the supercargo remarked, we were in a clove hitch. But, why should Mr Dawkins desire to be rid of the owners’ agent and, by consequence, his assistant? Here, again, we were long in debate before we came to a plausible theory. The owners’ representatives out of the way, Mr Dawkins would lift the plate and skip with the profits—this was our brilliant solution.

“Why, the man’s a common pirate,” cried Brandon. “However could we have engaged him? But it was the bottle did it; we had to, you see. It was all my fault, but it seemed such plain sailing at the time. I can never go back to England now, whatever this Murch does with us. We’re done—the game’s up. And I’ve dragged you into it, too, Harry,” says Brandon, with a very proper expression of remorse.

But regrets were unavailing, as I told him; this world is unsusceptible of refinements. It was to be supposed that Dawkins’s letter to Murch had described us as two young gallows-birds whose ingenuous faces our relatives were not anxious to behold again. Everyone is aware that the plantations used to relieve of their failures who knows how many excellent families? There was nothing strange in that. Dawkins had probably garlanded our necks for the sacrifice with the fragments of all the Ten Commandments; or, rather, it was to be supposed, Gamaliel’s fertile wit had done so for him, since Dawkins was no hand with a pen. Mr Murch, in all likelihood, was even now gone to see Captain Dawkins on our account; Dawkins would confirm his letter with damning detail; the bonds would be signed, and Mr Dawkins would pouch two hundred pieces of eight, or so. He would be at no loss to explain to the officers the continued absence of two dissolute young men; would make great pretence of delaying his departure; and would finally cut sail, swearing that he declined to lose another half-hour for the Angel Gabriel himself. We could see him at it. As for Mr Jevon Murch, he would return with Dawkins’s sign-manual for value received in his pocket, and—what then? We should be his property, as much as his ass, or his ox, or anything that was his. We should have lost everything in the world, and ourselves into the bargain. And yet, Mr Murch seemed possessed of piety, a strange quality in a friend of Mr Dawkins’s and one of Captain Morgan’s men.

“If there’s anything I hate,” says Brandon, with great energy, “’tis hypocrisy.”

I was beginning to explain to him how rare was this vice, so fluently imputed, so difficult to learn, when there came a knock at the door, a little barred wicket opened in the panel, and the face of the dumb negro appeared in the opening. He handed in a bottle of wine, a couple of cold roasted fowls, a branch of bananas, some good white bread, and various small delicacies. These I received and set out on the table, for Pomfrett refused to touch them.

“I will not break bread in the house of this canting scoundrel of a crimp and buccaneer,” said he, nobly, with a ravenous eye on the victuals, the like of which he had not smelt for weeks.

And all hungry and thirsty as I was, I had to persuade the virtuous supercargo that here were no hospitalities of an equal, but rations for prisoners, before I could begin.

“Do you really think so?” said Brandon.

I understood him. “My dear man,” said I, “do you take my feelings to be less delicate than your own?”

This was all he wanted; and, honour being satisfied, we made a heavenly meal. The negro kept in attendance and brought us cigarros, and we lay on the floor and smoked. We were not nearly so sad as we thought we were. I think, secretly, we began to conceive a sneaking kindness towards Mr Jevon Murch.

The twilight was gathering, when the bolts shot back, the door swung wide, and the great figure of Mr Murch appeared in the dark of the doorway.

“If you will have the kindness to come into my room, gentlemen, we will have a talk,” said he.

“Sir,” began Pomfrett, “what——”

But Murch had turned his back. Following him, we stepped into the passage, glancing left and right for a chance of escape. The passage opened at either end to the cool of the evening air; and in the doorways lounged two or three white men in great hats, holding long guns in the hollow of their arms, whom I took to be overseers. We followed Mr Murch into the room opposite our prison. He sat beside a tall scrutoire, a pair of lighted candles in silver candlesticks at his elbow.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he. “I have heard your captain’s account of you. I should be glad to hear your own.”

“By what right——” Brandon began.

“By right of purchase,” Mr Murch broke in. “You are as much mine”—he spread his broad hand upon the desk—“to keep, burn, or destroy, as this piece of furniture. Do you require documentary evidence? Here it is.”

He took a folded paper from his vest and laid it beside him. It was as we thought. We were indentured slaves for five years.

But Brandon declined to look at the document, declined to accept Mr Murch’s explanation, declined to have anything to do with him. He demanded, as a free British subject, to be liberated instantly, and so forth, with a fine indignation; to all of which Mr Murch hearkened with more patience than I should have expected him to manifest, on the whole. As he reclined in his chair, his great size and mass half in light and half in shadow, his narrow eyes, the upper lids drawn close, like the lids of a hawk’s eye, fixed upon the speaker’s simple countenance, the old buccaneer disengaged a strong expression of latent force; of sleeping fires that a touch might kindle into a highly disagreeable conflagration.

“I should tell you, Mr Pomfrett,” said he, in his sounding, deliberate tones, “that all this is nothing. Barbadoes is not England. Once for all, I am master here. There’s no admiral that sails the seas commands the obedience I command. Now, as to my request, again. Your story, gentlemen, is of no moment to me. You, Mr Pomfrett, may have misapplied your uncle’s money; you, Mr Winter, may have stolen a virtuous young woman from her parents”—here, then, were some of Mr Dawkins’s rather clumsy inventions—“it is nothing to me. It was rather for your own sakes that I made my request. I make it again.”

Every line upon his swarthy face, every hair of his strong white beard, every vibration of his deep voice cried “Beware!” We complied. We told Mr Jevon Murch all that had befallen, from the meeting in Gamaliel’s tavern to our landing in this accursed island. Pomfrett ended by a fervent adjuration, imploring Mr Murch, if he could not give or sell his liberty, at least to let him go down to the ship, on his parole, and challenge Captain Dawkins to mortal combat.

Mr Murch, who had listened without a word, good or bad, treated the proposition very airily.

“My lad,” said he, “don’t you know Dawkins better than that? He does not fight except for gain. Moreover, he sails to-night—has already cut sail, in all likelihood.”

I thought Brandon would have sprung at his throat, and then I thought he would break into weeping. He glanced at the iron face of his master, and then he stood looking down, with a bitten lip. Before he had time to give way to his feelings, Murch struck a silver gong, and a brown servant appeared, by whom preceded, and followed by Mr Murch, we were conducted into a sleeping-chamber. Murch commended to us the food and wine set out on a side-table, bade us good-night, and left us, bolting the door after him.

These emergencies of life are worse in either anticipation or retrospect than in experience. We thought little, and said little, ate and drank, and slept soundly, chiefly conscious of the pleasure of being ashore, in a clean house, with fresh food. That we were sold into slavery was certainly a disaster; we were aware of it, in the abstract; but, at present, we felt it not. As for Mr Murch, he puzzled us.

But, somehow or other, during the night-watches the shadow of servitude descended upon us. We awoke at first to a vague consciousness of a nameless taint, then to a clear perception of that infamy. In the good hour of the dawn, when the world is all still, and the air scented with the smoke of wood-fires, we stood sullen at the window, gazing at the clear glory of the sky with the eyes of chained dogs. It was so Mr Murch found us, when he came briskly in, at the heels of a thundering knock, cat-footed, for all his bulk, and massively alert.

“Gentlemen, what cheer? I have brought you a little present,” quoth he, tapping a folded paper with his thick fingers. “Do me the favour to glance at this document.”

Pomfrett received the paper, and together we ran our eyes over it. It was the same I had perused the night before, signed with Dawkins’s great sprawling signature, and purporting to be the indenture delivering us to Mr Jevon Murch for a term of five years. The sum paid was one hundred and fifteen pieces of eight for Brandon Pomfrett, aged twenty-two; one hundred for Henry Winter, aged twenty-five; both being “notorious profligate evil-livers.” The schoolmaster, it appeared, was the cheaper article—why?

“You have us in a trap—we knew that last night,” said Brandon, returning the paper. “But let me tell you, that’s a shameful document,” he added, hardily.

Mr Murch, with those narrow-lidded eyes of his on Brandon, slowly tore the paper across and across. We stared at the pieces as they dropped, and up at the bronze countenance with its inscrutable hieroglyphic of fine lines.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Pomfrett, stupidly.

“I desire your company, gentlemen, at breakfast—and my servants do not sit at table with me,” said Mr Murch. “I beg you will so favour me.” With his customary abrupt action, he turned about and padded from the room. What should we do but follow? Mr Murch led us out into the verandah. A lady wearing a black lace mantilla, as the Spanish ladies use, came to him and kissed him.

We were presented in due form to Mistress Morgan Leroux. What shall I say of her? She had the blackest eyes I ever beheld (but no eyes are truly black), beneath level brows, and a mouth the colour of bruised poppies. In the shadow of her hood and her dark hair she glowed like a rose, a refreshing vision to eyes tired with the eternal waste of sea. Mistress Morgan looked curiously at these two gentlemen, who were slaves (the taint was upon us still) no later than this morning, and it was their glance that dropped.

Mr Murch ate enough for three, and talked in a proportion.

“A clean ship, and the log posted—there’s the rule for a mariner,” says he. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll tell you. I’ve had youngsters shipped to me before; their cases were clear; repentance was the thing for them, and discipline to back it. Repentance is the word. A man is blown out of his course—there’s never mortal man that isn’t—and fetches up on a lee-shore very likely. He claws off as best he may, and thinks no more about it. And when he’s shipwrecked once for all, he’s surprised. He likes to consider himself a clever man, you see—he hasn’t the heart to repent—he’s a fool. Well, now, when I came to post up the log last night, I had in my mind that Dawkins was lying, after what you told me of yourselves. I know Mr Dawkins better than he knows me. But I wasn’t sure. I took the night to think it over, and this morning I saw what to do. Yours, gentlemen, is not a common case.”

“I hope not,” said Pomfrett. “I’ve lost my ship.”

“And that’s better than losing your head, my lad,” observed Mr Murch.

“Was that the alternative?” enquired Pomfrett, apparently with ironical intention.

“Dawkins is bitter fond of money, but he must be growing strangely patient in his old age to have suffered an owners’ agent so long,” returned Mr Murch, shaking his great head. “Why, next to the captain who died, and lucky for him, you were the thorn in his pillow from the beginning. What! not content with being an agent, you must hector him on his quarterdeck, by your own account! No—it’s a miracle you came ashore, Mr Supercargo.”

Here was a new point of view. Mr Murch began to appear transfigured into the light of a saviour.

“Yes,” he went on, “you may say I bought your salvation, gentlemen. No—don’t thank me.” Mr Murch waved deprecating hands. “If I hadn’t bought you, others would. Dawkins came to me as an old shipmate, you see.”

It was like a dream to be sitting in that strange place, with the girl watching us, and the old buccaneer discussing, between mouthfuls, the question of our death or purchase as though we had been a brace of poultry.

“But what I say and maintain, is a clean ship above board and below,” said Murch, harping back. “I hope I make myself clear, gentlemen. I want you to understand me. I know what’s right and I know what’s wrong, as well as any man alive. I consider it right to buy slaves under certain conditions, wrong under others. You do right, as you think; you find it wrong; what then? Repent, as I was saying. Repent, smart and handsome, and that brings you to your course again. Take your own case—you see? Why, now, that’s all shipshape. With your leave, we’ll talk business presently. Mistress Morgan will entertain you in the meanwhile, I daresay.”

Having delivered himself of these sentiments in his weighty, sonorous manner, whose positive assurance implied negation of even the possibility of contradiction, the old gentleman clapped a palm-leaf hat on his head, called for his horse, and disappeared.

“When Mr Murch talks in this way, you may believe him. It is true what he says.” Thus abruptly did Mistress Morgan Leroux address us, with a clear foreign-accented enunciation.

“Is Mr Murch your——?” asked Pomfrett, rather at a loss.

“My guardian, yes,” said the girl. “Ever since Sir Henry Morgan went to England. He was my grandfather—Sir Henry; that is why I am called Morgan.”

She sent for cigarros, and took one herself. We sat there in the cool shadow, well filled and comfortable. Pomfrett talked with Morgan Leroux. He forgot his ship, and his owners, and his aunt, and everything—you had only to glance at his face to know that. I let them talk; women are not much in my way. After a while old Murch came back and carried us into his room.

VI
Two Catspaws and a Lady

The dusky chamber, its lattices closed against the heat, was filled with the rushing noise of the wind in the trees without. Brandon Pomfrett gazed at me with a rueful countenance; he was thinking of the Blessed Endeavour, our tall ship, thrashing along before the gale, main-chains under, while we were caged with the old buccaneer.

“Well,” said Mr Murch, answering our thought, “so Mr Dawkins is cracking on for Yucatan, is he? From what I saw of your ship, I should say Dawkins could knock nine knots out of her, on a wind. He’ll soon fetch up in Catoche Bay. Now, I wonder, Mr Supercargo, if your owners would entertain a claim for salvage? I mean, if Dawkins were taken, now, with the plate on board, what, sir, on behalf of your owners, would you propose, for example?”

Mr Supercargo, excited but cautious, was understood to propose full and adequate compensation. Mr Murch appeared to reflect upon the proposition.

“Now,” he resumed, presently, “you know my rule,—a clean ship alow and aloft, nothing to hide, nothing hidden. Plain, open dealing. I tell you, candidly, I should find it hard to get a ship. I was one of Morgan’s men, you see. I’m earmarked. Every governor in these islands is bound to put down piracy. That is, if he hears of it. He’s not forced to ask questions. But Jevon Murch—no, they couldn’t allow Jevon Murch. That were too undisguised. But you, my lads,” says the old gentleman, stroking his beard and surveying us with narrowed eyes, “you could take your pick of every clipper bottom in the Indies.”

“There’s a trifling obstacle—we’ve no money,” said Pomfrett.

“There’s money to be had, perhaps,” said Murch. “I’ll be plain with you. I’ve a notion to end my days in England—I want to see Mistress Morgan settled there before I die. But England is no place for a poor man. I should have to sell the plantation, you see. To leave the estate to an agent is as good as to lose it—no reflection intended, Mr Pomfrett, I assure you. The sale would bring something, but not enough. How am I to get more? I’ll tell you, and here’s my offer. You get the ship, I’ll find the money. Fit her out as a privateer, and make sail after Dawkins. If we catch him, there’s your ship for you and salvage for me. If we don’t, why, with two stout ships I’ll engage to cut the guts out of Frenchman and Spaniard from the River Plate to California. It would be worth my while, you see. The question is, do you take it to be worth yours, Mr Agent?”

Mr Agent sat gazing upon the old pirate out of troubled blue eyes. The noise of the wind filled the room, thundering about the house, and beating with muffled blows upon the windows. Before the same gale Dawkins was slipping northward.

“Isn’t it too late?” said Brandon, dubiously.

“For Dawkins? No,” returned Murch. “No, I think not. I’ll tell you why. Dawkins will require another-guess crew to what he shipped with. There’s old seamen who’ve sailed on the account scattered in every port from here to Tortuga. Dawkins will shed his green stuff on the beach and fill up with the preserved ginger, if I know him. Let him, I say. All the better for us.”

Another pause, the hurry and the tumult of the wind mixed with the hurry and tumult of our minds. The new prospect was so unexpected, so suddenly opened, we were confounded. Mr Murch sat looking placidly down his nose.

“I’ll wager,” said he, presently, “you are wondering how I can trust two strange gentlemen so instantly. Simple enough. At my age, I can tell a man when I see him. At yours, now—why, you’re thinking even now that you put your heads in the lion’s mouth when you ship with me; deny it if you can,” says the old gentleman, creasing his face into a grin that curved his mouth upward, revealing his strong white teeth.

It was true. For me, I could conceive of no more desperate enterprise. But, our case was desperate. And Brandon, who would have given his body to be burned to get his ship back, asked for a day to consider the matter.

“A day!” cried Mr Murch. “Why, I would undertake to think the sun out of the heavens in a day. Better spin a ducat and be done. But take your time, gentlemen, take your time. Meanwhile, I’ll take a walk to the harbour. No sense in losing time, and I might fall across something which would come in useful. Remember, gentlemen, you are to use this house as your own.”

With that, he was gone. There seemed in us, upon discussion, some fatal attraction to piracy. Dawkins comes to Bristol, and chance, which might have led us twenty other ways, takes us straight into his company. He has us safe in that accursed bottle of his the same day, and there we are fitting out a fine ship for him to steal. We come to Barbadoes, are cast straightway into Mr Murch’s clutches, and in a trice we are getting a ship for Mr Murch—for him to steal, for all we knew. A fate was upon us: we were born to be catspaws for pirates.

We debated the question of appealing to the Governor of Barbadoes. What little we knew of governors did not incline us to this course. If he sent a ship-of-war after Mr Dawkins—which was highly improbable—any booty there might be would be confiscate to the government. The ship might be confiscate, too, for all we knew to the contrary. Besides, Dawkins would assuredly fight, and the ship would be knocked to pieces, or sunk, very likely. And if she were taken without damage, what should we be doing with a shipload of pirates, in strange waters, without captain, pilot, or sailing-master? The enterprise did not promise much. True, it seemed the legal, proper procedure; but were we not bound to do the best for the owners, irrespective of legal considerations?

“Very well,” says Pomfrett, “shall we ship with Murch? He’s——”

The door opened, and there was Mistress Morgan.

“He’s our only chance,” Brandon ended, hastily.

“And pray, sir, who is your only chance?” asked Mistress Morgan, familiarly. She seated herself in Mr Murch’s chair. This lady did not at all resemble our English ladies at home. She looked you in the face; she spoke to you as to an equal; she had no tricks of attitude or manner; but walked or reclined with the graceful, languorous freedom of an animal. In England, they would have said she lacked breeding.

Pomfrett had a notion that it was improper to discuss affairs with ladies, as his countenance plainly showed. “We were talking of some business, madam,” said he.

“Oh, I know your story,” said Mistress Morgan. “Mr Murch told me. I begged him, when,” says she, without the faintest reticence, “he bought you, to give you to me. I seldom see gentlemen fresh from England. I hoped you would amuse me.”

I do not know if it amused Mistress Morgan to see at least one gentleman fresh from England, sitting in a dumb agony of embarrassment before her.

“Tell me,” repeated Morgan Leroux, “who is your only chance? You are my lawful prey, you know. Would you escape my bondage?”

“On the contrary,” says Brandon, with sudden courage, “we would embrace it?”

“Embrace! Fie, Mr Pomfrett, what a word to use to a lady!” says Mistress Leroux, and Brandon flushed to his ears.

“Never mind,” she went on, “you meant no harm, I can see. Now, are we to sail to England together? Before you came, I was pestering Mr Murch night and day to take me to England, and he kept fobbing me off with this and that. And this morning he tells me it all depends on your consent to a proposal of his. Why, now, can you hesitate? Will you condemn poor Morgan Leroux to a lifetime on a plantation? Oh, if you knew how I hate the everlasting dulness of the days, everyone alike—and the smell of the black people!”

Pomfrett looked furtively at me. We had not taken the lady into consideration hitherto. Here was a new inducement; to Pomfrett, perilously attractive. I could see that he was trying to square his impulse with his duty to his owners. Morgan Leroux turned to me.

“Mr Winter, how mum you sit in your corner. Why, I’m ready to swear I’ve not yet heard the sound of your voice. What do you say, now?”

I said I was but an humble clerk, whose duty it was to follow whither he was led.

“A very proper answer, Mr Winter,” said Morgan, bluntly. She meant nothing contemptuous; she said what she thought.

“Mistress Leroux,” said Brandon, “you know our story. You know what we are. We’re marooned by a pirate; we’ve lost our ship; we’ve not a guinea in the world; we’re ruined. Mr Murch makes us an offer. Had we only ourselves to consider, we would accept it without question. But we are answerable to the owners. Now, Mr Murch may mean very honestly by us; or—if you will pardon me—he may not. We don’t know Mr Murch. You do. I put myself in your hands. I appeal to you. What do you say?”

Thus Brandon, with a strong flush and very earnestly. Morgan Leroux considered him for a moment.

“You say I know him,” she answered, slowly. “I doubt if I do, though I’ve lived in his house for several years. All I can tell you is, he is just and kind to me, and he has the name of a just man. What he thinks right, that he does, and nothing stops him.”

“There it is!” said Brandon, eagerly—“what he thinks right! The question is, what does he think right? You see, we’re new to this buccaneering business—it seems to have laws of its own, quite different from the Ten Commandments. We haven’t quite got the drift of the thing.”

Morgan looked at him with real concern in her vivid face.

“Do you know, Mr Pomfrett,” said she, gravely, “I think both you and I must take our chance. And for your business, I can tell you that it is of no use appealing to the Governor,” she added, significantly.

This, chiming with our own desires, clinched the matter.

“It seems,” said Brandon, as soon as we were alone, “that we are appointed to serve as pirates’ catspaws. Well, we’ll see which will pull the most from the fire, the thieves or the honest men.”

“Did you never feel,” I asked him, “when we started the business with Dawkins, that there was something behind—that it came too easy to be natural?”

“No,” said Brandon. “Did you?”

I told him that I did; and, what was more, that I had the same feeling at that moment. I told him Murch was too prodigal of his assurances of plain dealing; that, so far as my experience served, honest men did not indulge in these protestations; that I believed them (as I do still) to be the infallible mark of insincerity.

“Why the devil, then,” said Pomfrett, “didn’t you say so before? It’s too late to begin croaking now.”

At which I showed him we had no choice; and, therefore, needed all the more to be wary.

“Well,” said Pomfrett, assuming a light and careless manner, “I believe the girl is honest. She’s on our side.”

I hoped so; but to Master Pomfrett, at that time of his ingenuous life, every wench was an angel of honesty and virtue.

Mr Murch received our decision without changing a line of his cobwebbed countenance or a note in his deep voice. “Very well. We must sail within the week,” was all he said.

VII
The Wheel of Fortune makes a Quick Run

To man, arm, and victual a ship of some sixty men and eight guns, though the ship herself were ready for sea, takes ordinarily three months or more; and so to fit out a privateer, in the guise of a merchant vessel, in six days would seem an incredible performance. Yet we did it in a week—and it took a week to create the world, with unlimited facilities. Mr Murch must have been secretly preparing for some such enterprise for a long time. True, he never said so; but how else should a fine snow (a two-masted, square-sailed vessel), new rigged and cleaned, be waiting at the quay-side for a purchaser? How else should sundry merchants have the indents of stores ready made out in the back office, and the ammunition packed? And how else should the men of the crew present themselves in batches with such remarkable celerity? And what a crew! ’Twas the rout of Comus putting to sea. Scarred, dangerous, foul-mouthed ruffians; little, bustling Frenchmen; thick, mahogany-faced English; oily, sullen Portuguese; huge brutes of negroes and half-castes, most villanous of all. Some came shaking with drink, from the crimps’ houses; some, lean and lusty from their last ship; some, fat with soft living ashore; and some, dreadful tallow-faced creatures, with unkempt hair falling over snakes’ eyes, and hands like claws, from I know not what dark places of iniquity. And they all knew Mr Jevon Murch. I was certain of this. Not a day passed, while they were signing-on in the little office on the quay at Bridgetown, but Murch’s name would recur in their mongrel dialect as they stood talking and waiting their turn. And, of course, the merchants we dealt with had a private understanding with Mr Murch. Sometimes they forgot the pretence, and, a point arising for settlement, it was, “Well, sir, Mr Murch will tell you;” or, “As Mr Murch pleases.” But all business documents were made out in the name of Brandon Pomfrett. And no one asked awkward questions; it was no one’s business to ask questions, unless it were the Governor’s. And, after all, what was it to that high official that a cock-a-hoop young gentleman from England should choose to sail in the snow Wheel of Fortune on a private trading venture?

All that week we worked day and night, ate when we could, and slept where we sat. Heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, a nightmare jumble of black people and white; the long road to Murch’s house, hastily traversed at all times of the day and night; Murch sitting at his table, with his unchangeable iron face, steadily transacting business and directing affairs, the week through; mounted men riding up at all hours, sitting awhile with the unchangeable iron face, and riding away; Brandon Pomfrett snatching five bitter-sweet minutes of Mistress Morgan’s company, coming away and pretending he hadn’t; the ship in a dreadful confusion of packages and bales; and always heat, dust, smell, cockroaches, a fever of hurry, and the nightmare jumble of faces black and white—these are the remembrances of that strenuous week. A beastly climate and a beastly place, though curious to see.

We were to sail with the morning tide, keep the offing until dark, then stand in, with two lights in the foremast, to pick up Mr Murch and Mistress Morgan Leroux, off a point below the plantation. All their effects were already aboard, and a cabin fitted up for the lady with every luxury Pomfrett could improvise. Mr Murch had not only got his ship during the week, but had sold his plantation—slaves, house, and all. It was sink or swim, then, for Mr Murch and his ward, as for our two selves, on this venture.

Mr Murch was to act both as captain and master when he came aboard; meanwhile, Pomfrett, who was nominal captain and master as well as nominal owner, was in command. We came aboard the evening before; and Brandon sat for a long time studying a Manual of Seamanship, which he had borrowed from Murch. He read and read, the sweat dropping upon the open page.

“I shall have to take the cursed ship out to-morrow,” said he. “I don’t know how to do it, any more than the dead. And I can’t understand the book. I may have to sail close-hauled, large, quartering, or afore the wind, and how am I to know where the blessed wind will be to-morrow? I can’t remember the directions for each. And the least thing you do wrong, she broaches-to.”

“I thought you told Dawkins you could sail a ship.”

“I can navigate her,” said Pomfrett. “At least, I could if I tried. I’ve learnt the theory. But that’s not sailing her, you fool.”

“Can’t you find a kind of general direction, that will serve for any emergency—a sort of common denominator?”

“You’ll never make a sailor,” says Brandon. “Now listen: When the wind is on the quarter, the fore-tack is brought to the cat-head, and, the main-tack being cast off, the weather-clue of the main-sail is hoisted up to the yard, and the yards are so disposed as to make an angle of twenty-two degrees with the keel.”

“Very well. ‘Bring fore-tack to cat-head, cast off main-tack’ (“But supposing it is cast off already?” said Brandon), ‘hoist main-sail, go on rounding yards till I tell you to stop.’ Nothing could be simpler.”

“Ah, but,” says the hopeful mariner, “when the wind is one point on the quarter, the angle which the yards and sails make with the keel is somewhat less than a point. See what a delicate business it is! And again, when the wind is right aft, they’re at right angles with the keel, the stay-s’ls hauled down, the main-s’l brailed up, but you mustn’t furl the main-top-s’l and main-t’gallant-s’l, for fear of broaching-to! And supposing the winds fall to light and baffling airs, now a point this way, now the other—what then?”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “you’d better keep below and let the boatswain take charge.”

“No,” said Brandon, firmly. “One doesn’t command a ship every day. Keep below?—not I. Besides, I should forfeit the respect of the crew if I did.”

“And it would be better to forfeit the ship than that, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Captain Pomfrett, with perfect seriousness.

I had a premonitory vision of the Wheel of Fortune, staggering to and fro in the harbour, running down a boat here, carrying away bow-sprits and jib-booms there, the derision of Bridgetown; and I privately sought the boatswain. Since it was that officer’s duty to repeat the captain’s orders to the crew, he might yet save us. Our boatswain was a fat, good-humoured person, with a very long body, very short legs, and a tiny grey eye shining in the crease of his red cheek. I approached him with delicacy—so much delicacy that the worthy man, who was three parts drunk, had a difficulty in apprehending my drift.

“Ho,” says he, expostulating, “you’re a pleasant gentleman, Mr Winter, and no mistake. What harm have I ever done to you, Mr Winter, that you should wish to see me triced up to the gratings, a-biting on a cork, and the corporal a-laying on his twelve dozen for mutiny? And before we’re out o’ harbour too!”

I explained laboriously that my meaning was quite otherwise. I put it, that the captain’s long spell of work, combined with unusual potations, might cause him to give somewhat uncertain directions; that, in fact, the boatswain was to be responsible for taking out the ship.

“Taking out the ship? Why, now I understand you, Mr Winter. Don’t you fret yourself on that score, sir. I got my orders from Mr Murch. And Mr Pompion” (tompion, I suppose he was thinking of) “three sheets in the wind, is he? Ah, well, my advice to you, Mr Winter, is to go and do thou likewise. There ain’t no better way for to start a v’yage, nor to continue in the same, nor to end it. Rum’s the word, mate—rum!”

His voice dying away, he continued to regard me with a broad smile, apparently under the delusion that he was still speaking. I took his advice—not that I meant to do so. But I had an easy mind, since the wonderful Murch, who forgot nothing, had provided for our safety. We drank not much, that I remember. The rest of the night I forget. The ship was moving when we awoke. We scrambled on deck into the splendid sunshine, to see the quays and houses and green hills sliding behind us as the boats towed the Wheel of Fortune into mid-stream. A light air ruffled the shining water. Captain Pomfrett cocked a haggard eye aloft. The sails were furled, the yards squared by the lifts—that is, at right angles to the ship’s length. The faithful boatswain, bellowing orders from the forecastle, had the tow-rope cast off, the boats hoisted inboard, the men to their stations by the ropes, alow and aloft. Then he walked aft and reported all clear, with a solemn countenance. Captain Pomfrett stood as still as a statue, his legs wide apart, his face blue and white, his hat over one eye. There was a minute’s silence, the ship yawing slowly to the tide-rip.

Suddenly he exploded into life. “Slack away!” he shouted, arms waving. “Slack away!”

The boatswain’s whistle caught the words, the boatswain’s great voice bawled a string of commands, the yards were rounded, the sails let fall, and the ship, a tower of pearl-white canvas, began to travel with a noise of talking water. What Captain Pomfrett meant by his order, neither he nor I nor the boatswain ever knew. “It came upon me,” said Brandon, afterwards, “like an inspiration. It seemed to cover everything, and yet do no harm.”

We stood south-west until Barbadoes dropped beyond the sea-line; went about as the dark fell, and lay-to a couple of miles off-shore, with two lights on the foremast, the signal agreed upon. The moon rose beyond the black hulk of the island; and out of the shadow, down its silver pathway of light, came the boat, rowing with muffled oars.

We were rolling heavily, with much banging and creaking of tackle; but Mr Murch came briskly up the side, followed by a slim and pretty young gentleman. Slings with a chair attached were dropped into the rocking boat, and a white-haired old negress was hoisted inboard, and then the old negro without a tongue. Mr Murch took command, and we stood away again into the night.

“Gentlemen,” said Murch, as Pomfrett and I entered the lighted cabin, “let me present you to Mr Morgan Leroux, a gentleman-adventurer like yourselves.” There, indeed, was Morgan Leroux, in a fine suit of sable trimmed with scarlet, her bright black hair powdered white and tied in a queue. She leaned back in her chair and regarded Pomfrett’s solemn face with tranquil amusement.

“Mr Murch kept swearing he would have no trouble with women aboard his ship,” said she, with her customary frankness. “There can’t be any trouble now, can there?”

Before we turned in for the night Murch produced a document setting forth with all due prolixity how Brandon Pomfrett, gentleman, in respect of certain considerations, made over to Jevon Murch, gentleman, the snow Wheel of Fortune, and all, excepting personal effects, contained therein or properly belonging to her.

“Now,” says Murch, “you know me; anyone can under-run my cable—they’ll find it sound. This is a matter of form, to be executed in case a Queen’s ship runs us aboard and looks at the ship’s papers, or some such emergency. When we fall across Dawkins, I’ll engage to get your own ship back for you. Meanwhile, put your signature to that, and we’re all square and shipshape.”

Brandon considered the instrument with a doubtful eye. “You will understand, Mr Murch, I have my owners to consider,” says he. “As a matter of form, I think I should sign this when I’ve got my ship again, and not before. Your ship represents my owners’ security.”

“Does it?” Murch returned, grimly. “You may have overlooked the fact that this ship is mine already. And what about my security for salvage money? Have I insisted on that?”

Brandon was obliged to admit that point.

“It seems to me,” Murch went on, with massive deliberation, “that neither you nor I, Mr Pomfrett, would cut a hopeful figure in a court of law. No, sir. We’re outside the law, and must just conduct business as between gentlemen of for—of honour. And you might ask yourself, in a moment of leisure, what is to prevent Captain Murch from marooning two young gentlemen of your acquaintance on the next key?”

How much deeper Brandon would have plunged I know not, for at this moment Murch was called on deck.

“Now look you here, Brandon Pomfrett,” said Morgan Leroux, angrily, “if you will persist in running your head into the noose, you’ll be hanged at last, and I can’t save you. Can’t you see—oh, but men are stupid!—can’t you see Mr Murch has you in his hand? Signing all the documents in the world won’t leave you a ha’porth the worse; and if you anger Murch, he’ll toss you overboard. Why, what stops him now?”

“God knows,” said the bewildered Brandon, staring upon the lighted eyes under the level black brows.

“Why, what but Morgan Leroux, who took you from slavery, you fool,” says she. “But there’s bounds to Morgan’s power, let me tell you. Now sign, and no more nonsense. I’ll be one witness, and Mr Winter, who can write, I daresay, if he can’t talk, will be the other. God bless me,” says Morgan, “signing away a ship that ain’t yours won’t hurt you!”

I record this trifling incident, because it showed us clearly, for the first time, in what a perilous strait we were, and how our lives depended upon the favour of this singular, plain-spoken, fiery exotic of a girl, Morgan Leroux. Pomfrett consoled himself by the reflection that, after all, Murch bore no spite against us.

“Unless you drive him to desperation with your sea-lawyer’s tongue,” I said.

“But I’ve got to think of my owners,” was Pomfrett’s eternal cry. He, the agent, was continually inspired to a sense of duty by the thought of Mrs A., the crabbed old woman with the black slave, his pompous uncle, and the whole hotch-potch of paunchy burgesses who snuffled and canted and sent poor seamen to starve at sea—a remembrance which was merely disgusting to the agent’s clerk. They had taken their chance, and lost it, in my view. And yet I, too, was uncomfortably haunted by a sense of responsibility. Once a trustee, always a trustee.

Now, from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, in Yucatan, is fifteen days’ sailing with a fair wind, and I had anticipated, as, no doubt, had Master Pomfrett, fifteen days’ pleasant wooing of Mistress Morgan by the enamoured agent. But, somehow or other, I failed to remark the operation. From the moment when the swain clapped eyes on the lady in man’s attire, methought there was a change in his demeanour. Had Morgan not assumed protection of the agent so cavalierly, the change might have passed, but I doubt Mr Pomfrett could not stomach that improper reversal of their relations, in his helpless condition. He was bound to her by gratitude, or conceived that he was, and he sulked accordingly. Morgan forced him to run races with her round the ship, up to the cross-trees and down again, and beat him; made him compete with her in shooting at a mark, and beat him again; persuaded him to dance with her, and reviled his clumsiness with great freedom. Young Brandon began to think small beer of himself under this discipline; he lost a deal of dignity in the process, and conceived an immoderate desire to perform some exploit which should set him even with his tormentor. Yet this Morgan had nothing of the shrew, nothing of the virago. She was simply herself; she had no care, as Murch would say, to make any pretence. What she wanted to do, that she did, openly and freely; what she thought, that she said. Now this behaviour differed so extremely from the conduct of the English girls of Brandon’s acquaintance, that at first he was shocked. He thought, though he never said it, that she must be a bad woman, and this, I think, rather tempted him into her company. Be sure that Mistress Morgan knew what was in his mind. So the duel went forward between these two. I used to remark the boy’s square, guileless face beside the girl’s straight-browed, vigorous beauty, and wonder which would win.

As for Mr Jevon Murch, he left us much to ourselves, being entirely occupied in commanding the ship. If Mr Dawkins could sail a ship the way she ought to be sailed, so could Mr Murch. Yet he never took the chances that the jovial Dawkins risked so gaily. And while Dawkins cared nothing for the looks of the ship, and let the filth accumulate in heaps, Murch would have the decks like snow, the brass-work dazzling bright, the masts and yards scraped and varnished, the guns polished daily. The crew grumbled bitterly among themselves, and presently broke into open complaint. Murch had six men tied to the gratings, and gave them twelve dozen apiece. Their backs were cut to pieces. And thereafter, by a look here, a word there, now and again a blow that shook the offender for a week, Murch established discipline among that wild crew. How long they would have stood the strain I know not; for, so marvellous was Murch’s seamanship that we made Catoche Bay on the evening of the tenth day out, five whole days, or four at the least, before we were due, by all calculation. This was mysterious. But Murch kept the chart in a lockfast place, so we had no notion of where we were until he told us we were come “to our destination.” We had spoken ships almost daily, but there was never a sign of the Blessed Endeavour. Had she come and gone? That was the question. Murch wasted no time in solving it. It was dark when we dropped anchor; nevertheless, the captain went immediately ashore, taking with him his negro slave, twenty men, and five officers fully armed, and Mr Brandon Pomfrett. The ship was left in charge of Morgan Leroux, who had her instructions how to deal with Mr Dawkins, should he appear. The boatswain was second in command. I suppose that Murch took the officers with him to neutralize the risk of mutiny in his absence. It is of no use to steal a ship unless you can navigate her, and in his knowledge of navigation lies much of the secret of the officer’s ascendancy in the ships that sail on the private account. As for the humble compiler of these memoirs, he was left aboard as a kind of tame watch-dog.

When the day broke we found ourselves lying in a rocky bay, some two miles from the shore. I searched the coasts with a perspective glass, with intent to discover the marks described in the writing contained in Mr Dawkins’s bottle. “At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay having the red rocks where the river flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay.” Thus, Captain Grammont, the old buccaneer, to Captain de Graaf, his comrade. But I could see neither any red rock in particular, nor river flowing out. Here was another perplexity of this remarkable voyage.

The landing party was expected to return on the second day, but the second day passed, and the third, and still the long beach lay solitary, save for the myriad sea-birds, fishing and screaming. And the deep forest, climbing upon the tall mountains, grilled, silent and mysterious, in the sun, with no sign or sound of man. Morgan Leroux began to grow restless; her careless gaiety died away; a shadow dwelt upon her face. On the fifth day, in the morning watch, I was alone on the quarterdeck, in that still hour of the dawn, when I was aware of Morgan Leroux at my elbow. We both gazed shoreward for awhile, where the beach and the woods were whelmed in shadow and the tops of the far hills took the sunlight. Eastward, the dazzling half-circle of the sea shone clear and desolate. Still, no sign of the adventurers; stranger yet, no sign of Dawkins in the Blessed Endeavour.

“Mr Winter,” said Morgan, “I don’t like it. They went by a short way to the place—shorter than the river journey; they should have been back before this.”

“The river—what river?”

“Oh, I forgot,” says Morgan. “You don’t know, of course.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a river these four days, till my eyes ached. Here is Catoche Bay; where’s the river? Can you see one? I can’t.”

“Perhaps,” said Morgan, softly, “because it is not there? Come, Mr Winter,” she added, in her serious manner, “we are passable friends, are we not?”

“Surely.”

“Ah, well, you don’t like me—which matters little, Mr Harry Winter, save to yourself—but you don’t trust me neither, and that matters much, because,” says Morgan, “I am one to be trusted, did you but know it. And in this posture of affairs, do you know, friend Harry, I think you and me are to have dealings together, lest worse befall.”

I had not thought of it before—it was true. I neither liked her overmuch, nor trusted her. But, so curious a thing is man, I began to desire to do both, from that moment. Morgan looked at me and smiled pleasantly.

“Come,” says she, “I am going to tell you a story.”

VIII
The Story of the Incomparable Lady and the Admiral of Buccaneers

This was the story told me by Morgan Leroux, as we leaned on the taffrail of the Wheel of Fortune, in the still splendour of the dawn.

“Sir Henry Morgan was, as you know, my grandfather. He rose to be Admiral of Buccaneers and Governor of Jamaica, from very low beginnings. He shipped from Bristol in his youth, and as soon as he came to the Indies he was sold as a slave—a thing,” says Morgan, “which might happen to any gentleman. But he served his time, and when it was out he joined the Brotherhood of the Sea. Jevon Murch was ship’s boy in Mr Morgan’s ship, and he followed Mr Morgan all through. He was at the capture of El Puerto del Principe, and the taking of Porto-Bello. I have often heard him tell of the Spanish governor’s stout resistance, and how he refused quarter—which was great foolishness—and fought to the last, his wife and child clinging about his knees.

“Murch was with Captain Morgan when he took Saint Catherine’s Isle by stratagem, and so acquitted himself in the storming of the Castle of Chagre that Morgan gave him a billet which kept him about his person. So they went to the sack of Maracaibo, where they fought and quite destroyed the Spanish fleet, and Murch was Morgan’s lieutenant at the taking of Panama. I have heard the story of the burning of Panama from Mr Murch, for my grandfather never spoke of his life. Some drunken fool, it seems, set light to a house, and not the whole army of the pirates could extinguish the conflagration. The houses were chiefly of cedar-wood, and the fire burned for a month, with a stifling smell and a great smoke rolling out to sea.

“Meanwhile, Morgan neglected nothing that might gain him sixpence. That was his energetic way. The pirates raked and dug in the ruins and searched the wells and cisterns for booty; search-parties ranged the woods to fetch thence those who had fled, and brought them to be tortured until they gave up their riches; and boats were despatched to the near islands of Tavoga and Tavogilla to bring back others who had fled thither on the first alarm.

“Now, I must tell you that Captain Morgan’s custom was—as Mr Murch hath often described to me—his custom was, when the women were brought in, to have them passed in review before him. He sat in his chair in his lodging, which was the finest house he could find, as grand as the Great Mogul. Now, upon a day, there came in one of the boats, among the other women, a certain Spanish lady, wife to a wealthy merchant of Panama. The merchant had gone to Peru, whereby, no doubt, he saved his head, whatever else he lost. Well, this lady came before Captain Morgan with her old tire-woman, a silly person. ‘Why, Jesus bless me!’ says the duenna, looking at Admiral Morgan, ‘these thieves are like us Spaniards. They told us they had beasts’ faces, and oh, good little Jesus,’ she cries out, shaking, ‘what have I said!’ But my grandfather never marked her. He was looking at the Incomparable Lady—so they called her, not only, Murch says, because of her beauty but, because none other ever held Morgan at siege so long as she. The poor lady began to beseech him with tears to let her go, offering him ransom. ‘Ransom?’ says Morgan. ‘’Tis for me to offer ransom, I think.’ And he gave orders to lodge the lady with her woman in all sumptuousness, and to set a guard upon them. ‘And as for the rest,’ says he, ‘you can take it away. What have I to do with a gallimaufrey of kitchen grease?’ Well, Mr Murch was in charge of the guard that kept the Incomparable Lady. ‘And I saw,’ says Murch to me, ‘I saw Morgan the Welsh werewolf trapped and tamed.’

“I’ll make no pretence of delicacy in talking of my grandfather the admiral. A wolf he was in his youth, bloody and treacherous. Murch says he would never have believed his subjugation possible, but that ’twas the same with all the men. They feared their admiral more than the devil, yet had he offered the least indignity to the Incomparable Lady, there were plenty would have tried to run him through. Morgan visited the Incomparable Lady every day, suing with great gifts of pearl and plate and jewels—suing in vain. Then came the time when Panama was squeezed dry, and the pirates marched away across the Isthmus with a huge booty, driving the prisoners, men, women, and children, like a herd of cattle. The Incomparable Lady was carried in a litter by herself, guarded by Mr Murch and his men. Captain Morgan would walk for miles with his hand on the side of the litter, hoping she would speak kindly to him, if but a single word.

“Now, it was, as we must believe, that Morgan the buccaneer made up his mind there was one thing in the world for him, and that was the love of the Incomparable Lady. Herself he might easily possess; it was her love he wanted. He would never stick at the price. Never in his life had he counted the cost of what he desired; never yet had he failed to get it, soon or late. Her husband was alive? Then would Morgan kill him, or wait until God took the worthy merchant. She would not deign to look on a pirate? Then he would leave off that way of life. But to do that he must have money. You cannot live ashore on nothing; none was less likely to try than Morgan. Very well, money he would get. Did you never hear how Captain Morgan was accused of embezzlement at the dividend of booty, which was held beside the river of Chagre? The charge was true. He took his own proper share; he took much more, and brought it away; and he took more than that, and hid it by the river of Chagre.”

Mistress Morgan paused. A dim notion of what was coming was beginning to dawn upon me.

“You’ll see, Harry Winter, that I trust you,” Morgan went on. “Now listen. There are three persons alive who know where that treasure is hid. The first,” said she, speaking very deliberately, “is Mr Murch, because Sir Henry Morgan told him; the second is the old negro, our servant, whom you know. You may have observed that he’s lost his tongue. The third—now, who’s the third, Mr Winter?”

“Dawkins!” I said. “Dawkins, for a ducat!”

“Right,” said she. “How quick you are, to be sure! Dawkins was young then, younger than Murch, rated ship’s boy at the time. He and the negro, Morgan’s servant, helped Morgan to carry away the treasure secretly from the camp by night. The guards were removed by drink, or some other pretext, and Morgan took what he wanted. Afterwards, he would have killed Dawkins for safety’s sake, but the child was wary, and escaped. Morgan never saw him again. As for the negro, he cut his tongue out. I have never quite understood,” says Morgan, “why my grandfather kept him alive. But the man was a good servant, and it may be that the Incomparable Lady had softened Mr Morgan. Dawkins, Murch says, was a mutinous little thief, and deserved hanging twice over.

“Well, when the dividend was declared, on the morrow, Morgan had everyone searched, he was so zealous to be just in his dealings! He commanded them to search himself; and searched he was, to his boot-soles, the men handling him, according to Mr Murch, like a powder-barrel with the fuse burning, for he was easily ruffled. As the dividend came out, Morgan was entitled to a good sum, besides what he had hidden, yet the reckoning seemed fair enough. The rest got two hundred pieces of eight each. Two hundred little pieces of eight, out of all Panama! Small wonder the admiral was accused of embezzlement. The men turned mutinous, but he kept them under till he came to the coast, so great was his power over them. Then he sailed away without so much as calling a council. And he gave the Incomparable Lady her liberty, saying that his time would come, and he could wait. While he was waiting, he bought a plantation in Jamaica, and became Lieutenant-Governor, and afterwards Governor. Mr Murch bought a plantation in Jamaica, also. He was Morgan’s man to the end. I believe they had sworn blood-brotherhood, but of this I am not certain.

“In course of time, sure enough, Governor Sir Henry Morgan, by simple force of persistence, I believe, prevailed upon the Incomparable Lady. Her husband had died in Peru. She married Sir Henry. A daughter was born to her before she died, who married Captain Leroux, and became my mother. Captain Leroux, my father, was lost at sea, and my mother died soon afterwards. So I was left to my grandfather. When he was summoned to England, on some false accusation, he left poor little Morgan Leroux to Murch, who moved to Barbadoes, for Jamaica was no place for Morgan’s men after Morgan had gone. All those years the treasure was left to lie untouched. For it would never do for the Governor of Jamaica, sworn to put down piracy, and very ardent about the business, to come sailing in with a cargo of plate. And he could send no one, you see, except Murch, who was himself a marked man. Dawkins was thought to be dead. And if he were alive, why, he was but a boy at the time, thirty-seven years ago, the night dark, the place new and unknown—it was highly improbable he could find the spot. Moreover, he could not lift the treasure from a hostile country, unless he commanded a ship; and, even so, he would hardly dare to take her into Sir Henry Morgan’s jurisdiction. No—the two old men reckoned without Dawkins. But, why did he steal your ship? Mr Murch took it that he was after the treasure. For, Murch says, Dawkins is a desperate man. He’s getting old, ’tis his last cast. He’s squandered money and liquor in every port this side o’ the line. Now he’s got his last ship, by good luck; and supposing he misses the booty, do you see, he can still privateer till his hold’s full, then declare the dividend, pay off, and drink himself to death, as happy as a king. I cannot but admire your friend Dawkins, Harry.”

“Then,” said I, after some cogitation, “we are not in Catoche Bay—this is not Yucatan.”

“Dear child,” says Morgan, “not by a thousand leagues. Over there”—she pointed westward, where the mists were rising from the forests and the mountains shone in the blue—“is Panama. Over the horn of the bay”—she flung her arm northward—“is the river of Chagre. Now, do you see?”

The mystery of our speedy arrival was explained. No wonder I could not espy the red rock and the river of Catoche Bay, in a cove of the Isthmus of Darien.

“But why,” I said, after digesting the information, “did Dawkins come to Murch? Surely he was the last person in the world for Dawkins.”

“Dawkins knew little of Murch; he may have remembered his name, but no more. Besides, Mr Murch has an agent in England, and what do you suppose his name is? Why, John Gamaliel, of course—who else? He is agent for many of the planters. And Gamaliel sent letters by Dawkins.”

The Jew again. I wondered if he were concerned in Mr Dawkins’s little scheme.

“And what,” I asked, “about the glass bottle?”

“An old trick, that, but it never seems to stale!” says Morgan, with a broad smile. “See, now—Dawkins gets his ship, and keeps his secret. If he steers for the Isthmus, how are his officers to know it’s not Yucatan, when they fetch up? Did you? And if Dawkins fell sick, or died, or had a mutiny, the ship’s company might search the coasts till the Indians shot them or the Spaniards drove them out—what would they find?”

“As things are, they might find Mr Murch,” I remarked.

“That’s it,” says Morgan. “You are so quick, I declare ’tis a pleasure to talk with you, Harry. If Dawkins has taken boats up the river of Chagre, on the other side of the point yonder, those two old shipmates will meet, I shouldn’t wonder—a little surprise for honest Mr Dawkins, sure enough. Now, you see where we stand?”

“I see that my mate and I are as far from our object as ever, whatever befall.”

“But no farther,” said Morgan. “For I’m your friend—like it or not, I’m your friend, Harry Winter.”

I told her, I liked it very well. Not that I perceived much hope in the young woman’s amity.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said she. “It would be a pity for you and me to stand at loggerheads if Captain Dawkins was to come sailing round the point, with his eighteen guns shotted. And if he’s got the better of Mr Murch, why, look out for the tops’ls of the Blessed Endeavour. And if he hasn’t, it’s a strange thing that Mr Murch is away so long. We must have a plan ready, Harry.”

She patted my shoulder in a friendly way, did this singular lady, and left me alone to stare upon that secret barrier of forest and mountain, with plenty of matter for consideration.

IX
How the Supercargo asserted his Independence

For seven days longer did we lie rolling in the sun, awaiting Mr Murch’s return. Morgan Leroux discussed many a plan with me; but, since they all depended for their fulfilment upon the issue of unknown events, we naturally concluded upon nothing. We were extremely friendly together, now; and though Mistress Morgan had a shrewd notion of her own security, I do not know what might not have befallen the poor schoolmaster-clerk, had he been left much longer with this engaging young woman. The thing called love is, of course, much a matter of propinquity, and of a protean aspect. I say no more. Time and chance took us by the shoulders in due season; for, on the evening of the twelfth day after Mr Murch’s departure, when the dark had fallen at a stride, there came the red flash of an arquebus on the shore, then two more, the noise of the discharges echoing among the rocks.

A boat was manned inside of a minute and pulling for the shore, with Morgan Leroux and myself in the stern-sheets. Within shot of the beach, I hailed; and Murch’s unmistakable bellow replied. So Murch was safe, at least. They had set light to a handful of branches; we steered for that solitary flame; and there, huddled together in the wavering red light and vast shadow, were seven or eight figures. No sign of booty. It was Murch that caught the rope and hauled in the boat, the rest limping and stumbling behind him, two or three falling and lying where they fell; and Murch, without a word to us, gave orders to carry them into the boat. But where was Brandon Pomfrett? I was first ashore, peering into each face of the survivors. No owners’ agent was there. I demanded of Murch, where he was?

“Ah, Mr Winter, is that you?” says Murch. “We have met with accidents, sir. Mr Pomfrett not with us? Where is Mr Pomfrett?” he called aloud.

“Fell out, sir,” said two or three voices.

“Why, there, now,” Murch went on, “he cannot be far behind. I saw him but now. Climb the beach, and you will find him, Mr Winter. But make haste.”

Climb the beach, quoth he—run my head into a solid wall of blackness. There was no help for it, and on I went, stumbling over the rocks at every step, and shouting my comrade’s name. Suddenly, out of the thick darkness, a hand clutched my arm. I had a jolt of fright, but the voice of Morgan Leroux brought me to my senses.

“Keep quiet,” said she, speaking low. “Stop where you are.”

At the same moment I heard Murch give the order to shove off. The splash of the oars was inaudible in the thunder of the surf.

“Why, is he going to leave us?” I said.

“We are going to leave him, Harry,” said Morgan. “Keep quiet, I say, if you value your life. As for me, he thinks I am on board. Now come.”

There was no disputing Morgan, any more than her grandsire. We stumbled forward in the dark until we fetched up against a boulder. Looking back, we saw the water all a-gleam with phosphorescent light, flakes of fire dropping from the oar-blades, where the boat was ploughing a channel of lambent flame. Far away the ship’s lights shone, swinging to and fro in the dark. Overhead a thick curtain of cloud hid the stars; landward the fire-flies glimmered and darted, and we knew we were close to the forest.

“We must get forward,” said Morgan. “When Murch comes aboard and misses me, he’ll send a search-party.”

We found a way round the boulder, plunged into the wood, and struggled onward, striking against tree-trunks, lashed with branches, sinking knee-deep in moss or rotting wood. The air was heavy and fragrant, and whenever we halted, a thousand little wood-noises assailed our ears. And presently we caught the cry of a man’s voice, calling for help. Now here, in the pitch-dark wood, I was taken with a sudden revelation. This Morgan Leroux, this strange volume written in an unknown tongue, hardly deciphered here and there, whose hidden meaning both allured and warned, was turned unaccountably to a human creature, quick and fierce with some nameless emotion.

“That’s Brandon Pomfrett,” says Morgan, and answered him, high and shrill. He replied, and we replied; and so back and forth, as we floundered in the wood, this way and that. It is no easy matter to track a voice in the dark. And they must have heard us on the ship, for answering hails came, far and long-drawn, so that we confused their cries with Brandon’s, and the fear of pursuit was added to our confusion. But Morgan Leroux was brave as a man in the stress of that passage, and we kept on, boring our way like rats in a faggot-stack, until Brandon’s voice rang nearer and nearer, and we stumbled upon him where he lay at the foot of a rock, bound hand and foot.

“God! I thought I was dead,” says he, rolling over, as we freed him. “Have you any drink? I’ve touched nothing for two days.”

We had neither food nor drink with us; and if we were hungry, what was the supercargo? Morgan explained the posture of affairs, but I doubt if Pomfrett understood what she said. He hugged himself with his arms, and seemed to sleep. Never was so unheroic a rescue. Since, in all likelihood, Murch would delay sending to find us until the dawn, we composed ourselves to watch for the light. There we sat, in that discomfortable wilderness, while Pomfrett groaned and muttered in his sleep, and the leaden minutes laboured by with incredible sluggishness, until our faces showed dimly visible, each to the other, strange as ghosts, as a flaky greyness began to mingle with the dark. Then we took Pomfrett by the shoulders, dragged him protesting to his feet, and made him stand between us.

“Now,” says Morgan, “can you walk? So! Then we’ll strike for Porto-Bello. I can pass for a Spaniard anywhere.”

Pomfrett, coming to his senses, flatly refused to budge. “What are you doing here?” says he. “You must go directly back to Murch. As for us, we can shift for ourselves. Murch is quit of us—that’s all he wants. He told me so when he tied me up, and I was too tired to prevent him. Come, we’ll take you back to the beach.”

Thus was the first blow struck in the duel between these two. Pomfrett might have remembered that Morgan had risked her life to find him; but starving men cannot pick their words.

“Oh, is that the way of it?” said Morgan. “Is that how you talk to me?”

“Look you,” returned Brandon, laboriously, stopping at every other word to find the next, “I’ve lost my ship and I’ve lost the silver—Dawkins has it—he came with fifty men and beat us off. Well, then, we’ve lost all, we’re marooned—cannot you see? We’re like to die. You go back to your ship, and you’re safe.”

“All very noble and generous, Brandon Pomfrett. But let me tell you, my friend, that you waste time. If Murch catches you, I’ll not answer for what he’ll do this time. I can’t keep my petticoat over you for ever. Murch has done with you, has he? Well, now, I’ve done with Murch, do you see?”

“Do you mean,” said Brandon, stupidly, “that you’re coming with us?”

Sure, here was a laggard in love, if ever there was one. Morgan drew a little apart and looked at him. There was an uncomfortable silence. Here were we, lost, starving, in imminent danger of capture, and we must needs stand and dally with fine feelings.

“You would be rid of me, Mr Pomfrett,” says Morgan, presently, with a formidable quietude. “Is that what you would say? Out with it!”

Brandon clutched his chin. “I would not be unkind. I am thinking of you——” he began.

“That’s enough,” said Morgan. She plunged into the thicket, and was gone. In the deep stillness, we heard her crashing through the underwood. So we stood for a long time, till the sounds died away. I don’t know what were Brandon’s feelings; for myself, I own I felt a certain relief. What we chiefly wanted was breakfast. As the light broadened in the sky, we went a little forward, and presently found a patch of sunlight in a glade, where Brandon sat down, while I went to shoot something eatable with a pistol. Since the danger of pursuit was gone with Morgan’s departure, one might, I supposed, shoot as one pleased. I wasted a deal of ammunition on that breakfast. A pistol in unskilful hands is a miserable weapon for the uses of the chase, but I brought down a fat bird like a pheasant, a sitting shot, at last, and we devoured it raw, and found it excellent good. Brandon drank the warm blood like any heathen savage, and was wonderfully cheered. I told him, then, where we were—not in Yucatan at all, but on the coast of Darien; and I related Mistress Morgan’s story of her grandmother, the Incomparable Lady.

“Oh, now I understand,” said Pomfrett. “But Murch has lost his chance. We had found the plate, with the help of the old negro, when Dawkins came up with double our numbers. There was a bloody fight, and we lost nearly all our men. The rest escaped as best they could, and a fine march we had of it, with neither bite nor sup for two days and two nights. Well, if Dawkins has the plunder, it’s mine.”

“If it please you to think so,” I said.

“Where’s the ship, do you think?” asked Brandon, disregarding innuendo.

“At sea, where else?”

“And where’s the nearest port?”

“Porto-Bello, that Captain Morgan sacked, if he left any of it.”

“And where’s Porto-Bello?”

“Southward a day’s march.”

“Come along,” says Brandon, getting to his feet quite briskly.

“What do you think you’re going to do?”

“Ask me when we get to Porto-Bello,” says Pomfrett. “Up, you lazy swab!”

“Oh, very well,” I said. “Take the town of Porto-Bello, take Dawkins, take the Blessed Endeavour, and take Morgan Leroux’s marriage portion, we two, all by our two selves. Then take Murch and the Wheel of Fortune, and—what of Mistress Leroux? You’ll have her money, you may as well have herself. Take Morgan Leroux. Is that all?”

“The money’s aboard my ship,” says Brandon, with unmoved solemnity. “That’s enough for me. Come, now, march!”

And march we did, with intolerable labour, through that infernal wilderness, keeping the eternal booming of the surf on our left hand for a guide. Up and up we climbed in the fainting heat of the forest until we came out upon a spur of the mountains, and beheld the coast-line, jutting forth into many a rocky headland away to the northward, and beneath our feet the huddled brown roofs and white fortifications of Porto-Bello town, and its harbour thick with masts. Far as eye could reach the great glistening plane of the sea was bare of shipping. Where, then, was Mr Dawkins? and where Mr Murch? Down we went, two hapless wights, knowing no more than our boot-soles what should befall us.

It was dark by the time we gained the outskirts of the town, on the inland side. Dark walls blotted upon the stars; we could hear the sentries call and counter-call. Captain Morgan had battered Porto-Bello to pieces; but the indomitable Spaniard had built it up again, it seemed. Within was supper. We could see in our minds the spit turning, and hear the hissing of the fat; we beheld the ruby sparkle of the wine in the hospitable light of a tavern. The risk of capture was not great. We might pass as common sailors; only, how to persuade the sentry? Brandon would have been glad to kill him, I make no doubt; but Brandon was spent nearly to death; and as for Henry Winter, he had never slain a man, and had small stomach for the experiment.

We stood in the shadow of the trees by the road-side, bitterly considering the matter; but we could think of nothing to serve, save to wait until the country carts came in at sunrise, and pass in their train, if, indeed, it were the custom of this country for carts to come in. So we stayed, shivering in the heavy dew, until we were aware of footsteps drawing near along the road, and three men came walking softly. We followed them, keeping hidden, into the very shadow of the wall, where the sentry stood or paced before the gate. Voices spoke low in Spanish, there were a sudden stamping and a sound of hard breathing as of men struggling together, and three men came back along the road, closed about a fourth—the sentry, by the glimmer of his steel cap. Now more and yet more men appeared softly out of the dark, talking low together; and their words were English. Without more ado, we joined ourselves to them, unnoticed in the dark, and immediately recognized the men of the Wheel of Fortune. The redoubtable Murch was not there; we looked in vain for his head and shoulders looming above the rest. The whole body of some thirty men moved forward, and it was the sentry (I knew he had a pistol at his ear and a knife in the small of his back) who gave the countersign, and brought us under the deep arch of the gateway into Porto-Bello town. Not to excite suspicion, we broke up into groups of two or three, following each other at intervals of twenty paces or so; and in this manner we traversed the principal street, which was lighted by lamps here and there, turned to the right hand, and ascended dark and narrow ways until we gathered about a door in a high wall. Within, the garden was lighted as for a festival; the leaves of the trees above the wall glimmered gold; there was a noise of music and a gay sound of many voices.

“There’s victuals going inside,” says Brandon, hoarsely, in my ear. “In we go, whoever stays out.” And we edged through the crowd towards the door.

“You know your orders,” said one, and lo! it was the voice of Morgan Leroux. Brandon started back, but I took him firmly by the arm. I was hungry. “You two come with me,” went on Morgan.

“That we will,” said I, at her elbow. She turned as though she had been stung, and scanned us sharply.

“’Twas you I meant,” said she, with wonderful readiness. “Crowby and Harper, fall back.” And she knocked upon the door with the handle of her walking-cane.

The door was opened at once by a servant in livery, to whom Morgan spoke in Spanish. In the light of the garden we perceived that Mistress Morgan was dressed like a great gentleman, in lace and velvet and silk. Lamps of many colours gleamed and shone among the trees; within the house fiddles were going to a merry measure, and we could see the flitting figures of the dancers through the lighted windows. Many ladies and gentlemen moved in the garden, passing from shadow to shine with a gleam of finery and sparkle of jewels. There we stood, a crowd of lackeys and negroes staring upon this pair of scarecrows with matted hair, unshaven faces, tattered and miry clothes, while Morgan talked with the man who opened the door. Presently he went away, with an obeisance, and Morgan took us aside and spoke low.

“I have brought a letter for the Governor. I have told the servant you brought it to me through the forest; this will account for your state; he will bring you food. Eat and drink, and wait here by the door; if you hear me call, open the door and bring in the crew. But there is little danger. If you must speak, speak French—not a word of English, mind!”

Here, one with a silver wand came up, and Morgan went away with him—into the Governor’s presence, it was to be supposed. They brought us food and wine, and we ate and drank, sitting with our backs against the wall, hard by the door. We could hear the men on the other side talking low among themselves, while in front of us the festival went forward like a scene in a playhouse. But, before very long the music stopped, the assembly in the garden streamed within-doors, there was a great noise of talking, and presently the company began to depart in haste. They all passed close to us, as we sat by the door—fine ladies, hooded and cloaked, bearded Spanish gentlemen, some wearing swords, some without, some dressed in full uniform, some habited like merchants; the rout huddled past us in a hurry and out into the road, and before we had finished the jug of wine the garden was deserted, the house fallen silent, its lighted windows empty, and we were alone. Pomfrett was asleep by this time; and as for me, I thought I was asleep too, and dreaming. In my dream it seemed that Morgan Leroux came out of the house and called the crew within, and disposed them as sentries about the house; that two of them carried Pomfrett into the house and laid him upon a bed in a high, dark chamber smelling of cedar, while some draggled remains of one who was formerly known as Henry Winter, but who must on no account be confused with the real owner of that respectable name, staggered in to sink into a heap on the floor; that Morgan Leroux held a taper to the dazzled eyes of the said heap, which was then hove bodily upon a soft bed. Here the dream ended.

X
Dux Femina Fecit

A thundering of cannon, clanging of bells, and calling of trumpets fetched me broad awake. Pomfrett, slumbering on the great bed, never moved. I let him lie, and ran out to the verandah. There was Morgan Leroux, sound asleep in a chair. Sleep is a tell-tale; some quality of nature, hidden by day, looks stealthily forth from the unconscious face. Morgan’s beauty had in a measure departed from her. The features had relapsed into something of grossness: the nostril coarsened, the mouth relaxed, the skin flushed a dull red. The spiritual had evaporated; the animal was apparent. Yet it was no bad animal that lay supine, I thought, but an honest creature of courage and tenacity—and something more. But what that something was I could not decipher. Morgan Leroux opened her eyes, and her face changed into its living semblance, as her hands moved mechanically about the disarray of her man’s attire.

“Where’s Brandon—where’s Mr Pomfrett?” were Morgan’s first words. “Rouse him out—he must be gone before Murch comes, and you too, or there’ll be the devil to pay.” The noise of firing was so loud, I could hardly hear what she said. “I’m in charge of the Governor’s house, while he’s away directing the defence,” Morgan went on, with a pleasant smile. “Now, fetch Brandon, and I’ll get some victuals the while. Smart’s the word, Harry.”

She blew upon a whistle, and a sentry, from the other side of the house, answered the call, and began shouting to the crew, who were quartered somewhere out of sight. Brandon Pomfrett lay as I had left him. This face, at least, suffered little change in sleep; there was the same simple, stubborn honesty which ever marked the owners’ agent. Mark you now these two reflections of different souls; for the souls themselves were already in conflict one with another, and the weakest must lose the game.

A minute or two, and I had Brandon Pomfrett out on the verandah; but Mistress Morgan had found time enough to arrange her hair, and so forth, cares which were lost on Mr Pomfrett. The men brought relics of last night’s sumptuous banquet; and it was Mr Pomfrett’s glass that must be filled with wine, and his silver plate heaped with delicacies, by Morgan’s hands—hands that shook at the noise of artillery and tumult in the town below. As for Mr Winter, he was glad to shift for himself. So we crammed our victuals, standing and looking upon the empty garden, where the extinguished lamps were hanging in the trees and a few withered flowers lay upon the trodden sands of the walks.

“I don’t like this firing,” said Morgan. “But it’s a comfort to think there’ll be no one hurt—the dear Governor will care for that. You don’t understand? It’s just Mr Murch’s way, you see. We enter the town by the back door, all as you saw last night, while Mr Murch lies-to outside the harbour. We visit the Governor, introduced by the sentry—all as you saw.... His Excellency is giving a banquet. So much the better—we get the chief burgesses and soldier people, wives and all, in a bag. We secure the entrances, and there they are, prisoners of war, everyone in his best clothes. I have four pistols in my sash (only one is loaded, because I hate pistols, but how is his Excellency to know that?), and I present myself with my best bow and my whitest hand—a messenger of peace. I take his Excellency by his frill, and lead him apart from the giddy throng. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘Admiral Jevon Murch is lying off the harbour bar, with the Black Flag at the main, and a dozen tall ships at his call——’”

“But has he?” asked Brandon, round-eyed.

“What a question!” Morgan returned. “Have you never heard of a ruse de guerre? You forget I was employed in saving all those poor people’s lives. Don’t interrupt—there’s no time. If Murch catches you here, my pretty gentlemen—well, I can’t help you, as I said before.” She glanced about, terror in her face. “To be brief, I told the Governor that Murch would burn the town unless it was ransomed before ten o’clock to-morrow—to-day, that is—for two hundred thousand pieces of eight. Moreover, he and his friends would be hanged on the trees of the garden at sunrise.”

As she talked, in a high voice of feverish rapidity, her eyes shone, laughter passed upon her face like light and was gone, and all the time she kept glancing about and stopping in her talk, as though to listen, amid the noise of the firing, for the tramp of the pirates’ nearing footsteps.

“You would never have done it,” said Brandon, stolidly.

“Not I,” said she, “but Murch would. I was play-acting. And the old gentleman submitted. Perhaps he remembered the visit of Sir Henry Morgan to Porto-Bello. He little knew whose granddaughter he was making submission to. But he stood on a condition that he should be allowed to set up a sham defence, to save his honour before the world. Bless the man, of course he should! He’s making it now—hark to the Governor’s cannon. And off he went to take the shot from all guns, with a guard of honour from the Wheel of Fortune to attend him, in case of accidents. That’s all. Now, would you like a ship?”

She flashed the question at Pomfrett.

“A ship? what sort of a ship?” asked the slow-moving supercargo.

“A ship—don’t you hear me tell you—a ship with masts and sails. Oh, Mother of God, how dull——”

“A ship—yes, I suppose so. But what for?” Brandon lacked the time to appreciate the situation.

Morgan stamped her foot. “To carry you from here before Murch sees you. Hark!” She stared across the garden at the great wooden gate in the wall.

“There’s nothing,” said Brandon, unmoved. “And what ails us with Mr Murch, pray? It’s I that have a quarrel with him, I think. I want to ask your Mr Murch why he marooned me.”

“How long will you dilly-dally?” cried Morgan. “Come! There’s ships in the harbour for the taking. I’ll give you ten men. What’s it to be?”

“Why,” says Brandon, “the ship I want is the Blessed Endeavour.”

“Get another and chase her, then,” returned Morgan.

Brandon stood quietly considering the matter, undisturbed by the imminent jeopardy in which we stood. For Murch desired our removal, that was clear; probably because we knew too much of his secret affairs. For myself, I could see well enough that Morgan Leroux had much of a mind towards the amiable Pomfrett; it was scarce extravagant to suppose that Murch perceived as much, having more incentive to observation; and I wondered if the old buccaneer objected to his ward’s fancy. I had no time to pursue the speculation, for there, sure enough, was the tramping of feet coming up the lane without. Then came an imperious hammering on the garden gate, and Murch’s voice bellowing for admission.

“There! I knew it!” cried Morgan, turning white as a napkin. “Go! Get you out by the back, go down to the harbour, and I’ll send the men. Go!”

She laid hands on Brandon in her haste and fear, urging him into the house. “What’s all this?” said he, holding back. “Why should I go? I’m not afraid of Murch.”

Morgan pulled at his sleeve, the tears running down her face.

“Why, very well,” said Brandon, hastily, “let be, I’ll go. Good-bye.”

He looked at her as he spoke, but I think he never read the glance she gave him. The next moment we were retreating through the house. One of the Wheel of Fortune’s crew stood sentry on a little door opening from the back of the garden; seeing who we were, he let us pass, and we went down towards the sea. The inhabitants, black, white, and brown, were tumbling out of their houses, for fear of the pirates. They passed us, singly and in groups, laden with cooking-pots and bundles, all going to camp in the woods, the children running and crying at their heels. All through the town it was the same; and all the while the bells were hammering in the steeples and the big guns were booming in the castle, and never a sign of a pirate to be seen until we came to the quays; and there was the Wheel of Fortune wreathed in smoke, the great black flag flying at the main. She was firing at the moored ships about her, a dozen or more merchant bottoms, and three or four were firing in return, while puffs of smoke kept breaking from the walls of the stone forts at the harbour mouth. A sea-fight is a confused business—masts and sails appearing and disappearing in thickening volumes of smoke, tongued with red flashes, to an intermittent roar of cannon and crash of splintering wood—and the spectator can make but little of it. But, it would appear that Mr Murch, in his bargain with the Governor, had omitted to include the shipping in the harbour. Here was no mock engagement. We could hear the shot strike and see the splinters fly, and here and there a top-mast shut down sideways.

A convenient pile of timber made a shelter against the balls which came ashore now and again, and there we had a little leisure to consider the posture of affairs.

“I don’t understand this girl—this Morgan Leroux,” said Pomfrett.

“Why should you?”

“The girl worries me. Why should she want to come with us—when was it? only yesterday, so it was—and then here she is at Porto-Bello; and now she’ll get us a ship, by her way of it. But I don’t believe she can.”

“Dux femina fecit,” I said.

“Yes, but I don’t like it. Besides, the girl’s a pirate, and the daughter of a pirate. Why is it we can never be rid of pirates, whatever we do? All I want is to sail a straight course in the owners’ interests, and it can’t be done for this mess of pirates,” complained the agent. “All we do is to purvey ships for them.”

“Well, here’s a pirate—a female pirate—offering to purvey a ship for you in return.”

“And if she is,” says Brandon, with energy, “I’ll take it. I’ve got to get the property back somehow. I tell you what, Harry, I’ve been thinking that there’s cases where ordinary rules of morals don’t apply.”

“Do you say so? Continue, good supercargo.”

“Well, that’s all,” said Pomfrett, after a little consideration. “But don’t you agree with me?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “But the question is, what are we to do next?”

“Let us look the situation fairly in the face,” said Pomfrett. “I wish there was less noise, but it can’t be helped. First, there’s Dawkins, sailing away with our ship, the Blessed Endeavour.”

“And Mr Murch’s silver. Or, rather, Mistress Morgan Leroux’s silver.”

“There again,” said the agent, wrinkling his brow. “How do I know whose silver it is? It may be the very silver I set out to get. You can’t believe these pirate people. Anyway, it’s aboard my ship.”

“Call it yours, then. What next?”

“Next, there’s Murch in his ship, the Wheel of Fortune, which he owes to me, engaged in taking Porto-Bello. And next, there’s our ship which we haven’t got, but which Morgan Leroux says she will get for us.”

“And next, there’s ourselves, the Two Gentlemen of Porto-Bello, or the Virtuous Pirates,” I remarked.

“We’re not pirates yet,” said Pomfrett, cocking an eye over the baulks of timber, and diving down again at the report of a gun.

“How about getting Murch a ship under false pretences?”

“That was necessary in the owners’ interests. Besides, we never knew he was going to play this game.” Brandon regarded me with great solemnity. “I see nothing to laugh at,” he added. “I tell you, I’ll stick at nothing to get my ship back. I’m not afraid of words. Call me a pirate, if it amuses you.”

“There’s nothing amusing about Execution Dock,” I said, “and that’s the course you’re shaping, as sure as you’re alive, my buccaneer.”

“I can’t help it,” said the valiant agent. “But there’s no reason why you should run the risk because I do. You’ve no responsibility, and I hold you free to go where you like,” he added, magnanimously.

I thanked him. But—the rules of morality having been stretched all ready for action—the question still remained, what to do next? We sat and contemplated the problem, while the fight went merrily forward in the harbour. Boats had been lowered from the Wheel of Fortune by this time, and a couple of ships had been boarded and, apparently, taken. Presently the firing ceased; the cannonading from the castle, too, had slackened, and the bells had stopped their clamour. We were reflecting that, if the Governor had by any chance discovered how small was Murch’s force, there was still time for him to reverse the fortunes of that astute general, when Morgan Leroux, wrapped in a fine cloak of crimson velvet, appeared upon the quay. Behind her marched William Crowby, the boatswain, and a party of seamen, none too steady on their feet. Neither Murch, nor the devil his master, could keep pirates ashore from liquor.

Morgan beckoning to us, we followed her into a shore-boat; the boatswain took the tiller and steered towards a fine French sloop lying out in the harbour. Not a man appeared on deck; she swung to her moorings, to all appearance deserted.

“Better jam the rudder, all the same,” said Crowby, and put the boat under the counter, where, above our heads, ran the legend, in gold letters, La Modeste.

They wedged up the rudder with thwarts and an oar or two; a precaution usually taken on these occasions, to render the ship unmanageable, supposing the crew tried to run. Then we climbed aboard, Morgan Leroux going first, as superior officer. There was never a soul of her crew aboard La Modeste. You are to consider us all this time as following meekly the current of events, with scarce a word spoken. The hand of Destiny was on our necks, and with an Oriental composure we beheld the anchors hoisted to the cat-heads, the sails set, and the quays of Porto-Bello sliding past us. And, as in a dream, we saw Morgan Leroux signal to the officer in command of the Wheel of Fortune as we passed her, heard her explain through the speaking-trumpet that she had Murch’s orders to carry the sloop outside; ducked our heads as the forts on either horn of the harbour fired at us, the balls moaning overhead between the masts; and felt the lift of the open sea.

Then Brandon Pomfrett found his voice. “Surely you’re not coming with us?” he said to Captain Morgan.

Morgan turned and looked at him. Even Brandon might have understood her glance. She turned away again without a word, and La Modeste, with every stitch of canvas set and drawing, sprang forward, heading north.

XI
The Little Cruise of La Modeste

The situation was sufficiently delicate. Pomfrett drew me to the port side of the little quarterdeck. Morgan Leroux leaned on the starboard rail, having her back towards us.

“Look here,” said the owners’ agent, “this isn’t what I meant at all. This will never do. It’s impossible. Why did she come?”

“Well, for one thing, you would never have passed Murch’s ship going out of harbour, if it hadn’t been for Morgan Leroux,” I answered.

“Who commands this ship, do you suppose?” returned the supercargo.

“You must ask the lady.”

“But how can she sail with us—or we with her?”

“Too late to enquire, is it not?”

“We can put back.”

“Can we?”

“I’ll soon see,” said the agent, and marched across to Morgan Leroux.

“Well,” said she, “have you done discussing poor Morgan?”

“Will you tell us,” returned Brandon, wisely disregarding the question, “what you—what we are to do?”

“It’s me that should ask you, I think,” said Morgan, placidly. “Here’s your ship. What are you going to do with her?”

“My ship?”

“I said I was going to get you a ship; well, now I’ve done it, haven’t I? You don’t seem weighed down with gratitude.”

“But I am grateful,” cried Pomfrett, eagerly. “I think you’re wonderful. But what troubles me,” he added, in a burst, “is what—where—how I can serve you,” he ended, lamely.

“Will you take me to England?”

“I would gladly,” said the harassed agent. “Only, how can I? Come, Mistress Morgan, I put it to you fairly, can it be done?”

“Don’t speak so loud,” said Morgan, glancing aside at old Crowby, who was handling the wheel. “I’ll answer you fairly. Yes, it can. What are you afraid of? Don’t you know I can take care of myself? Now, then. What’s the alternative?”

“I would put back into Porto-Bello, and give you to your guardian,” answered Brandon, sturdily.

“You’re a brave young man, by your way of it,” said Morgan. “But it would be quicker for you to clap a pistol to your head this minute, and ask Mr Winter to pull the trigger for you. We shall be lucky to escape Mr Murch, as it is. But put back if you want to—only, what about Mr Dawkins and your owners?”

It was true. Behold the incorruptible agent torn in twain.

“I know you mean mighty well,” Morgan went on, with a sudden change of manner, “but you don’t think of me. You think only of yourself; and yet you credit me with pure unselfishness. I had an eye for poor Morgan Leroux, let me tell you, on this little enterprise. You would have left me to sail on the private account with that bloody pirate, Mr Murch, without a thought. You never scrupled to leave me to defend my own good name then—not you. No, no. But when I take the last chance of liberty and honour, and come aboard here, on the same quarterdeck with your worships, oh, then it’s a different tale! It’s ‘Is it right to sail with a woman?’ And ‘Can we endanger our spotless reputation?’ And ‘Put back to your guardian.’ God give you joy of your virtue, gentlemen. I thank Him, mine is of a different kind.” She spoke low, a spot of red on either cheek, an angry spark in her eye, and when she had done she turned her back upon us and walked away.

Brandon looked after the graceful figure with a tightening of the jaw. “Very well,” says he, “if that’s what she wants, by God! she shall have it.” It was not, exactly, what Morgan Leroux wanted, although, no doubt, she desired that too; but Brandon was to know more of the ways of women before he had done. Meanwhile, he went to her, and they talked together.

The prime point was settled, at any rate. Brandon Pomfrett was commander of La Modeste. And a modest ship she was—for a pirate—if ever there was one. Captain Pomfrett laid to his duties with a will. Prayers were read on the quarterdeck morning and evening; profane language was punished by stoppage of grog; flogging was the penalty for dicing or drunkenness; for striking an officer, or attempted mutiny, the offender would be incontinently hanged at the yard-arm. The nine men of Murch’s ship, the Wheel of Fortune’s crew, whom we had brought aboard, were divided into port and starboard watches, with double spells to keep, since we had but half the complement required to work the ship. Crowby, the boatswain, was made pilot and sailing-master; I, Harry Winter, was promoted to owners’ agent. The men had no thought but that we were sailing under Murch’s orders, as tender to the Wheel of Fortune, and the terror of his name helped to keep them within these strait bounds. They supposed he had appointed Pomfrett to the command of the stolen ship, and expected the Wheel of Fortune to rejoin us very soon. We, too, expected her appearance, and we kept a sharp lookout for her top-masts rising on the sky-line. As for Morgan Leroux, the crew still regarded her as the pretty young gentleman-adventurer, in which character she had shipped at first. It seems strange that her disguise should have availed her for so long, but I can only record the fact. That there are cases upon record of women serving for years in the guise of men, both as soldiers and sailors, is notorious.

Captain Brandon Pomfrett is now, you see, committed to chivalric action. He is rescuing the lady from all sorts of perils, so she declared, and she ought to have known; he is appointed the guardian and trustee of her maiden honour. The position restored his self-respect, something damaged hitherto by the contemplation of his obligation to Morgan Leroux. She had saved him from being bought and sold as a slave, at first; she came to our aid in Porto-Bello; and, for my part, I believe that she persuaded Murch to attack that town, and took her share in the business, in the hope of finding Brandon Pomfrett again—Brandon, who would have none of her, sending her back to the ship when she would have marooned herself along with the supercargo. Then she stole the ship in which we were now all sailing together, and gave it to Pomfrett. And for all these benefits he had returned nothing until now, when the lady cast herself upon his protection. Until now, the more she did for him the less he had liked her. The obligation had galled him; besides, Brandon Pomfrett had no notion of dangling about a petticoat; he had other ends in view. Do you think Morgan Leroux had no perception of these things, when they are plain to common persons like you and me? At any rate, affairs took on another complexion aboard La Modeste.

From the moment Captain Pomfrett assumed command, Mistress Morgan found herself waited on hand and foot. The captain, you see, considered it his duty to pay the extreme of nice attention to one in his protection. Morgan, too, became less aggressively masculine in appearance; she wore doublet and hose, indeed, but over these she disposed the fine cloak of crimson damask which came from the house of the Governor of Porto-Bello, so that she really went clad in a loose gown. Moreover, her talk insensibly changed its note. She was less loud and downright, no longer boisterous, but falling into placid silences, in which her dark eyes, shining beneath the straight brows, like lights in still water overhung by cliffs, met Brandon’s glance and held it, and dropped away again. These little signs served to indicate the course and rising of that invisible stream that makes the real history of life. As for the other, the procession of shows, that passes with a great noise and clamour: the life of eating and drinking, fighting and folly, getting and losing; kept its indifferent way with even pace.

Its chronicle, so far as our little voyage on the Ship of Modesty be concerned, began in a report from the cook that there were but a few days’ provisions in store. Whereupon Captain Pomfrett encouraged the watch to vigilance, promising to the man who first sighted a ship the pick of the small-arms aboard her. And the second day at sea we sighted a small snow, flying French colours. Our colours were French, too—a coincidence of which we made use. We overhauled the snow, fired a shot across her bows, summoned her to surrender, and sent a boat aboard to take possession. There was but small resistance, soon put down. These little ships speculate on the chance of running the gauntlet of pirates and privateers, rather than trust to their powers of defence. We pressed six of her crew, negroes and half-castes, took her cargo of wine, brandy, flour, and cocoa, and let her go; but not before Captain Brandon had pillaged her great cabin for dainties to grace the board of his own. Two days later we took, in like manner, another small ship, laden with marmalade, jars of gunpowder, some bar silver, muskets, and bags of bullets.

Meanwhile, there was no sign of Mr Murch. It was to be supposed that he was delayed in Porto-Bello. And, meanwhile, was no sign of Mr Dawkins, either. We were sailing north, but Dawkins might have gone south for all we knew, save that Murch was ranging to the southward, and Dawkins would have little lust to meet him. So we held on, with plans somewhat indeterminate. We could not sail after Dawkins for ever; if for no other reason, because our crew would certainly break into mutiny before long. They came out for plunder, and plunder they would have, sooner or later. Failing Dawkins, we might set a course for Bristol, and keep the crew in a good humour by picking up what ships we could on the way. What would happen when we fetched up in Bristol was a question never at this time debated. Persons in a doubtful situation often avoid a discussion, for, so long as a matter is not talked of, you may, if you like, pretend that it does not exist. But it was clear enough, without any words, that we were in a feeble case. We had but four guns and twenty-odd men, against Mr Dawkins’s eighteen guns and ninety men, or Murch’s eight guns and sixty men. Either pirate could blow us out of the water, if he had a mind.

Meanwhile, we held on steadily before the jolly trade-wind, shepherding its white cloud-flocks upon the blue illimitable fields of heaven. A great part of the captain’s day was occupied in taking the sun and working out the ship’s position; no dead reckoning or rule-of-thumb for Captain Pomfrett; the rest of his time he spent with Morgan Leroux. The skipper would have had the voyage to last for ever on these terms, I think. So we cruised warily among the group of little islands, Albuquerque Cays, Saint Andrew’s Island, Old Providence Island, and Serrana Cays, spying in every harbour, creek, and inlet for our old ship, the Blessed Endeavour, captained now by Dawkins. For we reckoned that she would need cleaning by this time, and we hoped to light upon the bark in some sequestered bay, careened and helpless. But we worked through the islands in vain, and steered north-west for Cape Gracias à Dios, at the outflow of the River Coco, where we would take in wood and water. So expert was the captain becoming at the art of navigation, that we did not miss the Cape by more than fifteen miles—a trifling error, easily amended by two or three hours’ tacking about and about, to which evolutions we owed the sight in the offing of a tall ship steering due west. Perceiving that the stranger altered her course as though to speak with us, we went about, and soon showed that, on a wind, we had the heels of her, whoever she might be. Before long she altered her course again, steering for the mainland. But when we fetched up in the shadow of Cape Gracias à Dios that evening there was no ship to be seen, and we thought no more of her for the time, being busied for the next two or three days in getting wood and water for the ship, overhauling her, and making good defects.

Upon the third night after our arrival in this snug anchorage we had been supping late, and came upon deck about midnight—the skipper, and Morgan Leroux, and the writer of these memoirs. The moon had gone down behind the rocky headland, which loomed upon the silver dimness like a huge couchant beast; fire-flies sparkled in the vast shadows of the shore, and out to seaward the smoothly rolling plains of water stretched away and away, glimmering mysterious. Save for the eternal thunder of the surf, which ran so continually in our ears that we ceased to hear it, the night was very still.

“This is a pleasant life,” said Captain Pomfrett. “It’s a pity it must end so soon.”

“Why so soon, then?” asked Morgan Leroux.

“Owners at home, and pirates abroad,” Brandon answered.

“I am so tired of your talk about owners,” said Morgan. “What have you to do with owners, when it was their ship’s company that sold you in Barbadoes? Why, they set Dawkins on to do it, very likely.”

“You wouldn’t say so if you knew my uncle, not to mention aunt,” returned the captain, lazily. “But it was I that brought Dawkins to them in the beginning, and it’s me that has to bring him back in the end—dead or alive.”

“Dead or alive, ho, ho!” came, like an echo, and with a chuckle, close beside us; and there were the head and shoulders of a man, risen above the rail of the bulwarks, black upon the moonlight.

As we turned, he dropped below the rail. Pomfrett cried out “Who’s that?” and we all ran to the side to see a boat, manned by eight or ten men, shoving off from under the counter. Pomfrett challenged, and the same voice answered across the swiftly widening space of water, “Dead or alive, shipmate, dead or alive—ho, ho, ha!”

Pomfrett roared for the watch below, and, the men tumbling up in a hurry, he had a boat lowered and went himself in pursuit. But lowering boats and such evolutions are not performed in a ship of the private account as they are in Her Majesty’s navy. By the time our boat struck the water the stranger had a fair start, and Pomfrett must needs return before very long, having lost all trace of her in the dark.

“That’s Dawkins, for a ducat,” says Morgan; and we supposed that she was right, and that the ship which had chased us three days since was the Blessed Endeavour at last. The watch on deck had no information to give; it was clear the man had been asleep, and he was duly sentenced to a flogging. Then we held a council. If Dawkins were near by, we should hear from him again before long. In that case, were we to fight? Run away we could not, for the wind had dropped. Now, buccaneers do not risk their skins in fighting unless there is a distinct advantage to be gained thereby, and Dawkins stood in very little danger from us. We were too small a force to harm him. All things considered, the captain (whose decision is final in all questions of fighting, chasing, or being chased) decided to clear for action and sit still. It was true that the boat might not have come from Dawkins, but from a strange ship, or even from Murch himself; but, even so, we had no alternative.

Yet I think we had made up our minds that it was Dawkins who had found us out—I hardly know why. Morning dawned in a windless calm, and I went ashore with a perspective glass and Morgan Leroux, who insisted on accompanying me, to climb the headland. We came to a bare place in the ridge, where the trees fell away, and there, looking northward, stretched a big lagoon, and on the shore a tall ship lay careened. Tents were pitched, the smoke of fires lifted light against the dark woods, and men were clustering like ants about the ship. That was the Blessed Endeavour, sure enough; I could tell her lines among a thousand.

“So there’s the long-lost bark,” says Morgan, staring through the glass. “She’s not far off, and yet she might as well be an ocean away, for all the use she is. I’ve a month’s mind to pay this Dawkins of yours a visit, Harry. Shall I ask him to dinner?”

In vain I adjured this obstinate girl to return. She laughed me to scorn.

“Your Dawkins does not know me,” said she. “Why should he harm me? I’m a brother skipper, d’ye see, out on the account, like himself. Oh, I’ll spin the man a yarn, never fear. Take your long face back to the captain with my compliments, Harry, and bid him prepare a dinner for Mr Dawkins by six o’clock. Adieu, my friend.” And she plunged into the wood.

Here was a quandary. It was my business to return to the ship and make report; yet how could I let this wild quean go alone into Dawkins’s camp? But supposing I went with her, what could I do against near a hundred pirates? Moreover, I had no longer any doubt but that our visitor of last night was sent by Dawkins, who must therefore be aware of our neighbourhood; and I reflected that Morgan could go on her errand alone with a much better face than if I were to accompany her. Besides, she was not running any great risk.

On the whole, it was better I should go back to the ship; and back I went, but ill at ease.

Captain Brandon Pomfrett fell into a violent passion when I gave him Morgan’s message.

“God do so to me, and more also, but you shall answer for every hair of her head that’s injured. Why did you let her go? Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you go with her?”

Thus Pomfrett, and much more to the same effect. I never saw him in so deplorable a condition of rage and distress. But, after a while, he consented to wait until six o’clock before setting out with the whole ship’s company to rescue the damsel.

“I know,” he said, at last, “it’s her doing. You couldn’t help it—I couldn’t myself. And perhaps she’ll come back safe—she’s very clever, Harry,” says the captain, wistfully.

And, meantime, as you shall hear, Morgan Leroux stood in no danger at all, save in the captain’s excited imagination. The occurrence marks a stage in the relations of these two.

XII
The Old Buccaneer and the New

So our quest of the stolen ship promised to issue, in no tragical adventure but, a simple dinner-party. When there’s a lady in the case, the schemes of men are commonly disposed quite otherwise than they had planned.

Pacing the quarterdeck, sitting down, getting up again, trying to smoke and forgetting to keep the tobacco alight, now neglecting all oversight of the men, and again turning upon some luckless seaman like a tiger—who now so uneasy as the captain, deprived of his gentleman-adventurer?

“And what in the wide world am I to do with Dawkins, should he come aboard?” says he.

“Put him in irons, take over the Blessed Endeavour, then maroon him; simple as you stand there.”

“Don’t you see, you fool, I can’t touch the man so long as he’s aboard? He’s my guest.”

“Morgan’s, you mean.”

“Well, the scoundrel’s a guest, at any rate,” says the skipper, angrily.

“All’s fair in love and piracy. But, of course, if you’re going to stand on scruples with a pirate——”

“And pray what would you do yourself, Harry?”

“I should do what Mistress Morgan bid me,” I answered, promptly.

Brandon had nothing to say to that. “The question is,” he began again, “does he know we’re aboard? If that was his boat came sneaking in the dark, why, he does. If it wasn’t, he doesn’t know, but someone else does. And who may that be? Can it be Murch?”

“If you’ll take a humble clerk’s advice,” I said, “you’ll sit quiet instead of asking riddles; you’ll say your prayers, and keep your powder dry. This is Morgan Leroux’s affair. We have only to look on. If Dawkins doesn’t know we’re aboard, it were a pity to enlighten him. So keep dark, I say.”

The captain condescended to approve this counsel, and we made arrangements accordingly. The dinner—the notion of the dinner struck the skipper as so monstrous absurd, he could not bring himself to instruct the cook, and I had to do so—the dinner was to be served in the captain’s cabin. Next to the captain’s cabin was the great cabin, occupied by Morgan Leroux. We bored spy-holes in the bulkhead between the two, and then, there was no more to be done but to wait. The ship rolled at her moorings, blocks banging and clattering, cordage creaking; the brazen sunlight lapped ship and sea and shore in a blinding glare; the everlasting rumour of the breaking surf, unheeded in the ordinary course of occupation, began to wear upon the mind. All day long the shadows crept or receded upon the white beach, the rocks, piled or scattered, the lofty barrier of forest; all day long the far sea-line, joining the horns of the wide bay, lay vacant of the smallest blur; all day long the sea-birds screamed and dived about the ship, and rode on the heaving water. The shadows lengthened, and the heat lessened sensibly; the men had finished their work, and lay and lounged about the waist and forecastle, smoking and talking, while a savoury smell of cooking meats was diffused from the galley.

If we were but cruising for pleasure, now, with hearts at ease, what a good hour would this be: the day’s work done, the aromatic breath of the woods blown off-shore by the cool land-breeze, the stars beginning to shine in the quiet sky, the great peace of the night descending upon us; whereas, under the prick of hidden circumstance, the tightening cord of suspense, we could neither stand nor lie, and the shining calm about us served but to increase discomfort. But time must go, drag his feet as he may; and there came at last a little sound of music, as of drums and fifes, and the white triangle of a sail came round the point. It was a yawl, filled with people, and drummers and fifers making melody. We stayed until we distinguished Morgan Leroux sitting in the stern-sheets, alongside Mr Dawkins, then dived below, while the boatswain piped all hands to the side. We heard the familiar voice of Dawkins roaring out the stave of a nonsensical sea ditty, as his boat drew near, and from the sound, we took that eminent commander to be half-seas over.

“Oh, lay the helm a-starboard, and round on t’other tack!

There’s many a seaman on this cruise what never will go back.

So crowd every stitch upon her, and the devil care for the spars!

And cry good-bye to earth and sky, for we’re sailing to the stars.

“All a-sailing to the stars,
Ye gentlemen Jack-tars;
We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green,
All up among the stars.”

The boat’s crew joined in the chorus, very much out of time, and ceased; we could hear the sea-birds, disturbed from their nesting-places among the rocks, crying and calling overhead, as the party came aboard; then Dawkins struck up again, as he came stumbling down the companion-ladder.

“Oh, up with the Jolly Roger to mizen and peak and main!

There’s many a mess of swabs afloat what’s spoiling to be slain—

So double-shot the guns, my lads, and ram ’em very tight,

And heave a kiss to Bet and Sis, for we’re out on the chase to-night.”

“Chorus! Cap’n Morgan Leroux, hey? Why, your namesake, my old commander, God bless him, would a loved that song like his very own. I mind one day, he—why, now, split me,” said Mr Dawkins, sitting down with a drunken chuckle, “if I rec’lect what in the deep sea I do rec’lect.”

Ensconced in the adjoining cabin, we had our eyes glued to the spy-holes, you may be sure. Morgan Leroux fetched out bottle and glasses from the locker.

“A tot of rum, Mr Dawkins, now, to set you fair for dinner?”

“Spoken like your namesake,” said Dawkins, approvingly. “And you’ll surely join me this time, so I shan’t be ashamed. No? Well, strike me blind if ever I see a thing like this here. A gentleman of fortune, and not drink—why, it ain’t in nature. Well, here’s plate and plunder, full cargoes for every gentleman of fortune!”

Morgan Leroux opened the door between the cabins, and at sight of us her eyes lighted and her cheeks flushed. Brandon caught her hand, as she swiftly slipped the bolt.

“Lass,” he whispered, “I never thought to see you again.”

“All’s well,” said she, giving him both her hands. “I’ve caught the thief for you; he’s properly trepanned. Leave him to me; he’ll drink himself drunk hand to fist before the liquor’s done. Then you can lay him by the heels. But listen,” she added, whispering very low, “Dawkins never sent that boat. I found that out for certain. There’s trouble in the wind; never a ship in sight outside; where could the boat come from? Do you think it was Obeah work? Were they ghosts in the boat, that called out ‘Dead or alive?’”

Morgan had been nurtured, you see, among the black people; she believed in the Obeah magic, and hoodoo, and devils and spirits, quite naturally. But, white or black, Eastern or Western, there are few, indeed, who are not secretly credulous of the supernatural; and for a moment we three stared upon one another in a foolish silence; while Dawkins, in the next cabin, happily oblivious, began singing to himself again.

“Ho, we’re out on the chase to-night,
Cracking-on for a bloody fight—
Ye fancy men now turn again,
And follow the prey to-night.”

“What ho, shipmate!”

“Have you pistols?—very well. Come when I call, but not a moment before. Wait till you hear me say—what shall I say?—O, ‘Dead or alive,’” whispered Morgan, and slipped from the cabin.

So the old buccaneer and the young decoy-duck, dressed in the drake’s finery, set to at their victuals, Dawkins talking noisily the while.

“Now, I don’t ask—nor I haven’t never asked—for anything better than this here,” says Dawkins. “Plenty of rations and plenty of rum and a smart shipmate to keep the bottle rolling. Not that you shines in that last, cap’n, much as I admire your parts and person—no, you don’t, and it’s a sad pity. But there, I seen many a stout seaman gone to the devil by way of this same liquor, and every man to his taste, says I.”

“It’s the sober man that gets the booty, Mr Dawkins,” Morgan put in, to keep the old ruffian talking.

“But the drunk ones is the happiest,” retorted Mr Dawkins. “Look at me! I’m happy—let no one deny it. Leastways, till the liquor’s out, I wouldn’t change with kings on their golden thrones. Why, now, what a thing it is, as a man what wants so little, like me, should have so hard a job to get it—like I have. All my life it’s been the blessed same, ever since I shipped as cabin-boy out o’ Bristol city, me starving at the time. All the dirty work to do, a kick here, a clout with a marlinspike there, the cat going, knives out, provisions running short, and every man-jack with his little bit o’ luck except Dawkins, poor old Dawkins, what only wanted to sit quiet on his beam-ends and consume his victuals in due season.”

“What made you join the Brotherhood, Mr Dawkins?”

“It’s plain to see you’ve never sailed in a merchant bottom, nor yet in the Royal Navy,” replied the buccaneer, with great meaning, “or you wouldn’t ask the question. No, by the bones of the deep, you wouldn’t! What’s the merchant service? Worms in the pork, weevils in the biscuit, no wages, and what there is you’re robbed of. Set a litter of pigs afloat in a coffin, and they’d make better weather of it. Ah, my David, they would so! And talk of the Queen’s Navy—why, there,” said Mr Dawkins, pausing to spit on the floor, “that’s what I think o’ that degraded mess o’ swabs. Lord save you, Cap’n Morgan, you are but young, and the world’s changed since my time; but when I was your age there was but one way of going to sea, any sense, and that was the way of Brotherhood of the Sea, as they called it. Now your namesake, good old Harry Morgan—there was a man!”

“Oh, you sailed under Morgan, did you?”

“Here’s his health, and may you grow to his likeness,” cried Dawkins, filling his glass to the brim and spilling a good deal as he raised it to his lips. “Ah, I sailed under Morgan, and Captain Hansel and Captain Bartholomew Sharp afterwards. Why, I was with Morgan when he took and burned Panama, and that’s a thing not many has lived to brag of—not many, no, no, not many, shipmate.”

Mr Dawkins had reached that stage of intoxication when the patient keeps smiling to himself and repeating the same words over and over.

“Yes,” continued Dawkins, “I was with Cap’n Henry Morgan at the taking of Panama. Ah, the cap’n had all the luck there was on that v’yage, by all accounts.”

“I’ve heard,” said Morgan Leroux, “that Captain Morgan was accused of embezzling the plunder.”

“I never see the end of the exp’dition,” Dawkins answered, shortly. “So I can’t say as to that, you see.” And Brandon nudged me.

“You don’t know, then, what became of the bar silver?” said Morgan. “The cache of bar silver, eh, Mr Dawkins?”

Dawkins stared at the speaker with an expression of amazement that changed to suspicion. His shaggy, rusty brows shut down over his little eyes, his nostrils dilated, he glanced swiftly to left and right, and back again to Morgan’s placid countenance. She was not even looking at him, but was gazing at the lighted candle that stood between them on the table. So they rested a minute or more, the little yellow flame of the candle swaying gently back and forth with the motion of the vessel, lighting Morgan’s high-coloured, straight-browed face of abstraction, and the hairy, lined, mahogany visage, with the little glinting eyes, opposite. Dawkins was labouring with his muddled intelligence, trying hard to think.

“Now, I wonder, just as a matter of curiosity, what made you ask that there question, shipmate,” said Mr Dawkins, with an elaborate show of indifference, evidently desiring to gain time. Mr Dawkins’s interval of reflection had perhaps suggested to him that Morgan’s question might be merely an innocent enquiry suggested by some old, vague story. There were plenty of wild yarns afloat concerning buried treasure and the like.

“Because,” Morgan replied, with a reckless audacity that made us jump, “that silver belongs to me.”

“Ho, it does, does it,” said Dawkins, after a little uneasy silence. “And how might that be, shipmate, make so humbly bold?” he added, with the ominous politeness we knew.

“Ah, well, you know the saying, Mr Dawkins, ‘the longest liver takes all.’”

“Seems to me, shipmate,” said Dawkins, with laboured sweetness, “you’re a-talking in riddles. Now, I was never no hand at riddles.”

Without removing his eyes from Morgan, he was stealthily fingering one of the pistols he wore in his cross-belt of silk, after the manner of the pirates. The persuasion that he had been trepanned was working itself clear in his mind.

“No riddle at all, Mr Dawkins,” said Morgan, pleasantly. “Your old commander, Sir Henry Morgan, was my grandfather——”

Dawkins, in his amazement, dropped his hands upon the table and leaned forward with fallen jaw.

“——And he left his wealth to me. You’ll find it hard to bam your old commander, Mr Dawkins, dead or alive!”

We were in the room on the instant, covering Mr Dawkins with our pistols, like a scene in a playhouse. He gave up his arms quite peaceably, in a dazed, helpless way; and sat all shrunken together and staring upon us. Then he turned upon Morgan Leroux, and delivered himself of some pungent observations. Pomfrett stopped him sharply.

“Avast there, Mr Dawkins. I’ll have no swearing aboard my ship.”

“Your ship, was it? ’Twas this pretty little monkey was skipper just now,” growled Dawkins. “Come,” he went on, “I know when I’m beaten, I do. I had some opportunities to learn, you see. Now you got the weather-gauge of poor old Dawkins, not a doubt of it. Let’s know the worst. ’Tis Jevon Murch as put you up to this here little game—enticing a man with a invitation to dinner, and what not, and call yourselves gentlemen. I’d make better gentlemen out of a pope’s head and a slush-bucket, split me!” said Dawkins, his choler getting the better of him.

“No,” said Pomfrett, quietly, “Mr Murch knows nothing of the matter. It’s you and I that have to settle accounts, Mr Dawkins.”

We were seated at the table, opposite the old buccaneer, each with a couple of pistols lying under his hand, the candle-flames streaming this way and then that way, with the motion of the ship. Morgan Leroux had retired into a corner and sat in the shadow, with her chin in her hand, watching us under her level, black brows. We could hear the noise of Dawkins’s men carousing with the crew in the waist.

“Settle away, then, Mr Supercargo,” said Dawkins, who appeared a little more at ease upon learning that Murch was not at hand. “There’s no man alive what’s more open to fair discussion than me, though I say it.”

“Very well,” says Brandon. “First, then, you sold Mr Winter and myself for slaves.”

“It looks like as if I did at this present moment, don’t it?” growled Dawkins. “But I won’t quarrel over details, cap’n. Heave ahead.”

“Second, you stole the Blessed Endeavour.”

“Who says so?”

“Well, you did, you know,” returned Brandon, a little set back. “What’s the use of talking?”

“Not much, by the look of it,” retorted Mr Dawkins. “You say I stole the ship. I say I didn’t, nor I haven’t. I was elected captain—you helped elect me, you two, ’long of the others. I’m captain still. What are you? Deserters, I reckon. If you was to come aboard, I’d clap you in irons, and no mistake about it. Now, then! What next? You’ll tell me I stole a cargo of silver, I shouldn’t wonder, like young jackanapes in the corner there, what’s grandson to Cap’n Morgan. Grandson, says he! Ho, ho!”

At this, Brandon advised Mr Dawkins, in forcible terms, to keep a civil tongue in his head.

“Why, what now?” cried the injured Dawkins. “A man may speak, I should hope! One would think Cap’n Morgan’s grandson was a young lady what couldn’t defend herself, to hear you. But there, Mr Pomfrett, you got the weather-gauge, as I say, and you can give your orders. Go on, sir. I’ll give my best attention.”

But Pomfrett was somewhat at a loss. Perceiving, for the first time, how strong a case Dawkins could make out in his own defence, Pomfrett sat uncomfortably silent. Old Dawkins grinned at him.

“You got me here by treach’ry, Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “and I reckon ’tis no use asking for a fair hearing in full council aboard the Blessed Endeavour. I ain’t a fool. I know what you want—you want to see me a-drying in the sun at Execution Dock, while you takes all the cash and all the credit too. And very natural, I’m sure. On’y, how are you a-going to do it?”

Still Brandon sat silent. Morgan Leroux gazed at him intently, anxiously. He was contending with his scruples; the civilised conventions which would prevent his fighting a man like Dawkins with his own weapons. Was he, at the dictates of scrupulosity, to let the thief go free, because he was his guest, and so forfeit all his owners’ fortune, and the fortune of Morgan Leroux likewise? For a minute or two, I believe the notion presented itself to Brandon Pomfrett in the alluring light of an heroical sacrifice, such as you read of in books. But common men in common life must act as they can, not as they would, and the truth that Dawkins had taken to his heart in infancy Brandon was to recognise now—just in time.

“Dawkins,” says he, in a hard, sharp voice, that caused the old pirate to look up with a start, “I’ve just two words to say to you. Give me sixfold compensation for having sold us as slaves—that’s six hundred pieces of eight for each, you know; give me back the ship and all that’s in her, resign command in my favour in full council of officers, and you shall go free.”

Morgan Leroux, sitting silent in the corner, clapped her hands.

Dawkins’s tufted eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked at the young captain with a queer expression of mingled dismay and admiration.

“Spoken like a gentleman o’ fortune, by the bones of the deep!” says he. “Blest if I thought you had it in you, Mr Supercargo. Very good, commander. And what if I refuse this here modest proposal?”

“You’ll hang at the yard-arm at sunrise.”

“Dear me! At sunrise, too—quite poetical, ain’t it?” said Dawkins; but for all his bold front, he was visibly shaken. “But just a moment, commander, just one little question. What would you gain, now, by hanging poor old Dawkins—at sunrise?”

“Well, you see, it’s not so much what I should gain as what you would lose, Mr Dawkins,” says Pomfrett.

“Ah, I reckon you’re too clever for me, too deep altogether,” retorted Dawkins. “But I ain’t scared, not me, so don’t think it. I’ve lived cheek by jowl with goodman death for a matter of fifty year, you see. What do I lose, says you? Why now, I’ll tell you. I’ll lose a little cottage by the water-side, with a bit of a flagstaff in the garden, and flowers and a seat in it, and what not. I’ll lose a few quiet years of steady rations, which enables a man to fix his attention on repentance, ready for kingdom come, with a Holy Joe a-taking his Sunday tea in the parlour, very likely. Not much by the sound of it, is it? But it’s all poor old Dawkins has in store, for fifty year of hard service—just enough to make the difference of hell on the one side of the great gulf, and a golden crown and harps and such on t’other, for a poor old seaman.”

“Accept my terms, and I’ll give you a chance of the cottage and heaven and all,” said Brandon.

“Would you, now?” cried Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “Why, that’s mortal kind of you, commander, to be sure! You’re a man to be trusted—we all knows that—and I’ll take your word on it, Mr Pomfrett. I know when I’m beaten, I reckon. How much now, would you——”

“All in good time,” said Brandon. “We’ll have the dividend declared before the Blessed Endeavour sails.”

“Now that’s what I call talking!” says Dawkins. “The dividend declared—that’s real business. And then she sails for England, does she? That’s good news, too. And who’ll command the barky, cap’n, if I might ask?”

“I will,” said Brandon.

“Ho!” said Dawkins, with an appearance of deep thought. “Yes, of course. I might a knowed that much, says you. But now you and me is friends again, commander, you’ll not take a friendly hint amiss, I’m sure. The crew I got together, Mr Pomfrett, ain’t exactly Mary’s little lambs, as you might say—eh?”

He cocked his eye at Pomfrett with an expression of extraordinary significance.

“I’ll take my chance of that,” says the valiant skipper.

“Now you listen to me for a brace of shakes,” returned Dawkins, with a sudden change of manner. “This is straight talk, this is. I know where I stand. I’m a-going to play the square game. You can see for yourself I’ve naught to gain by telling you. But as sure as sunrise, if anyone but Dawkins—or Cap’n Murch, maybe, but he ain’t about, you say?—as sure as death, I say, if you takes command of that there ship, there’ll be mutiny, hot mutiny, damned hot. By the bones of the deep, Mr Pomfrett, there’ll be a bloody throat-cutting, gospel truth there will.”

Pomfrett glanced uneasily at Morgan Leroux. The probability of the statement was undeniable. Love and war are excellent pursuits, but they should be carried on separately. Dawkins dropped the lids over his little, twinkling eyes, and seemed to study the table.

“Under favour, commander,” he resumed, presently, “I would humbly suggest another way—me what has a rope round his neck and feels the hemp rough on his skin a’ready.”

“Well?”

“Declare the dividend as you say, all well and good. The officers, they don’t know—any more than you do, come to that, Mr Pomfrett—they don’t know, not being told, d’ye see, that the ship ain’t being sailed on the private account for the owners’ satisfaction, all the samey as we started, so there won’t be no trouble about the dividend of the plunder. You and me can settle that, private. Then there’s pickings for the crew, for we ain’t been altogether idle while you was a holiday-making in Barbadoes, so there won’t be no trouble about that, neither. And then—well, I hardly like to mention it, commander, I don’t indeed.”

“Speak up,” says Brandon.

“Why,” Dawkins went on, with a sort of deprecating suggestion that he was laying himself open to a painful misunderstanding, and knew it, and could bear it—“why, it come into my mind that bygones being bygones, and you and Mr Winter aboard again, all shipshape and comfortable, and the dividend being declared, and all, d’ye see,”—Mr Dawkins’s laborious insinuation of extraordinary sincerity was a thing to behold—“I thought to myself, d’ye see, why not let things be as they was afore, commander?”

“You mean, you propose to retain the command of the Blessed Endeavour yourself—is that it?”

“Well, you see, commander, I was elected in full council. There’s no getting away from that. And the officers, they wouldn’t understand a new arrangement, d’ye see; they’d want a explanation. And then, d’ye see, if you was to give ’em what you might call your explanation, they mightn’t—I don’t say they wouldn’t—but they mightn’t believe you, captain. It ain’t,” said Mr Dawkins, piously, “that I want to put myself forward—you see that, don’t you, commander?—it’s on’y what’s best to be done for all parties consarned.”

We looked at each other in silence. There was no doubt about it—Dawkins dead was more dangerous than Dawkins living; since, if he lived, we had but to reckon with himself alone; but if he were removed, perils multiplied at every step. The old rascal had the weather-gauge of us, after all. We looked at each other. It was Morgan Leroux who broke into a peal of laughter, and suddenly we were all laughing; we laughed until the tears came, all except Mr Dawkins, who sat with his big, scarred hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him, gazing at us with a face of wood. His gravity was like a reproof. We turned serious again as suddenly as we had broken into mirth.

“Well, gentlemen, what’s it to be?” said Dawkins. “Hang me and put your heads in a hornets’ nest, or call me Captain Dawkins and sail to England as safe and easy as the Lord High Admiral in a blessed ship-o’-the-line?”

“Why, really, Mr Dawkins,” began Pomfrett, “I think you should offer some sort of security, just as a matter of form, you know, that we shan’t be hove overboard, or marooned on the next island.”

“Security? Why, I’ll do what I can. I’ll give you what I got. I can’t do no more,” said Dawkins. “Gratitude, now, gratitude for saving me a hanging, what d’ye say to that, commander, for a sheet-anchor to wind’ard?”

“No; won’t do,” said Brandon. “I’ve got to set twice six hundred pieces of eight, a cargo of silver, and a tall ship against that item. Try again.”

“Fear of committing sin?” suggested Dawkins.

“No.”

“Fear of the law, then?”

“No; there’s not enough of that commodity south of the Line, Mr Dawkins.”

“Fear of the ship’s company? There’s some of ’em would be almost called honest.”

“Pass again,” said Brandon.

“Well, you’re hard to please, commander, so help me. What,” said Mr Dawkins, “if I were to swear a oath on the Book, now?”

“That’s better,” said Brandon, “and the least you can do.”

“Oh, that’s better, is it?” said Dawkins, evidently discomfited. “Well what must be, must, I reckon. Fetch aft the Book, commander.”

Brandon took a Testament from the locker where his kit was stowed, and there and then administered a terrific oath to Mr Dawkins, binding him, under the most blasting penalties in this world and the next, to perform his share of our mutual agreement. A pirate has a certain respect for an oath taken on the Bible; and although it is always doubtful how far it will bind him when the pinch comes, this thin strand of superstitious faith was all we had to trust in.

“Well an’ good,” said Dawkins, drawing the back of his hand across his lips. “Now it’s my turn, commander. Take the Book in your right hand and say after me.”

And he launched into an apocalyptic imprecation beside which Brandon’s attempt at a sacrament paled its ineffectual fire. To Morgan Leroux, and to me, did Mr Dawkins, not sparing us a single jot, then administer this tremendous compact.

“And now,” said Mr Dawkins, filling his glass for the first time since we had entered the cabin, “a glass all round to wet the agreement, shipmates, and then—as there ain’t to be no hanging at sunrise—why, I’ll turn in for a stretch off-shore on this here locker, commander, by your kind leave.”

He lay down, wrapped in his boat-cloak, and slept instantly. A sentry was stationed at the door of the cabin, and we three went on deck. As we emerged into the dusky glimmer of moonlight shining diffused behind clouds, the watch challenged loudly. “Boat ahoy!” But there was no boat to be seen. “I could ’a’ sworn there was a boat, too,” said the man. “Yonder, out by the headland.”

The crag stood forth black upon the dim glow of the sky, and the sparkling heave of the empty sea. There might be a whole fleet behind the rock, for all we knew. This second mysterious visitation, false alarm though it might be, affected us disagreeably. Was it not enough, we complained, to be finally committed to a hazardous adventure, a voyage whose every hour brought peril, but we must have a new terror thrust upon us out of the night?

XIII
Showing what Befell in Caratasca

The next morning we weighed anchor and sailed round Cape Gracias à Dios to the Caratasca Lagoon, and there was the Blessed Endeavour, high and dry on the sandy beach, having her bottom scrubbed. You would think, now, that Brandon Pomfrett was rising on the crest of fortune’s wave: his ship recovered, with her hold full of treasure, the girl he admired in his company, and fixed to remain there. And yet, one look at Dawkins’s burly figure and old, sly visage was enough to poison expectation. You could no more put your trust in him than in a wild boar of the woods. You might try to imagine yourself doing so, and you would always fail. And it was a far cry to England from Caratasca Cays. But, what choice had we? None. We must even run the gauntlet. I think Brandon Pomfrett would have given his right hand, or, at least, his left, to carry off Morgan Leroux in the Modesty ship and pitch his owners’ interests overboard. Indeed, I suggested that he should do so, offering to remain aboard the Blessed Endeavour in his place. But he would not have it—such is the force of early training in the service of Madam Duty.

“No, no,” says he. “Where there’s three of us, Dawkins may play fair. With one alone—why, I leave you to guess the sequel. As it is, I don’t see how we’re to sleep of nights. We three—or at least the two of us—must keep watch and watch about and pistols primed.” And so we did. So long as we were shipmates with Captain Dawkins he never caught the trio napping; two waked while one slept, that was the arrangement; and Morgan Leroux took her spell fairly. I would not have married that wild wench for a king’s ransom; such desperate adventures were not for the quiet clerk; but he gave her full meed of admiration.

“And supposing Mistress Morgan Leroux is—is found out?” I said. “Because, you know, it’s sure to happen, sooner or later. And what then?”

“Ay, ay,” said the unhappy agent. “I tell you, the thought rides me like a nightmare. Well, you’ll see. I’ll contrive to cheat the devil there, too.”

“It’s not one devil, it’s ninety fiends of the pit you’ve to deal with, my son. Well, we’ll hope for the best—the longest liver takes all.”

You see, our supercargo had a weighty burden for green shoulders to carry. A man may bear almost any weight of his proper work, and never be the worse of it; but when a woman comes and gaily perches herself a-top, ’tis then his sinews begin to crack.

To the general council of officers, held that evening, Captain Dawkins in these words genially introduced the agent and his clerk.

“Gentlemen, here’s Mr Pomfrett and Mr Winter returned among us after their turn ashore, which I’m sure neither you nor I begrudge them. We’ve managed to carry on, by hook or by crook, and even done a little business on our own account, in the mean time. Now, here’s the supercargo, come to overhaul the Book of Plunder, as it’s only right he should, d’ye see, and he demands a dividend.”

Mr Dawkins’s insinuation had instant effect. One of the mates arose and requested some explanation of our absence from the ship. Was it to be understood, he desired to know, that we were to come and go as we pleased, while the rest of the ship’s company kept to their job, and then we were to return at our pleasure and overhaul their takings?

“Easy, my lad, easy,” said Dawkins. “What you’re a saying is disrespectful to me”—Mr Dawkins winked shamelessly—“and don’t you forget it, my son. If I’ve consented to accept Mr Pomfrett’s explanation, why, that’s enough, I should think. So let’s hear no more of it. Let bygones——”

“Stop!” cried Pomfrett. “Mr Dawkins, you know as well as I do, that I have to account to my owners in this matter, and not to you, nor to any man aboard.—Quartermaster!”

“Sir.” The grizzled old quartermaster jumped to his feet with an expectant alacrity.

“Take notice of what I say. Now, gentlemen! I’ll fight any man aboard this ship who calls my conduct in question.” He glanced about the ring of hostile faces. There was a dead silence.

“Come now,” said the quartermaster, rubbing his hands, “ain’t there any gentleman anxious for to oblige? Why, we ain’t had a spell ashore with the small-arms all the v’yage.”

It is the quartermaster’s business, by pirates’ law, to stand umpire in all quarrels involving a duel, which must always be fought on shore. But our friend was not to exercise his office on this occasion. No one took up the challenge.

“Very well,” said Brandon. “Then since we are not to fight, let us be friends. Now, I’ll tell you, we’ve not quitted the ship for our own pleasure, of that you may take your oath. We’ve been about the owners’ business; and if you want proof, there’s the little Modesty lying off the beach. That ship joins the expedition, gentlemen, and she’s not empty, either.”

Thus did the agent turn the tide in his favour; and everyone clamoured to hear the story of our adventures. But Dawkins, who had his own reasons for checking indiscriminate curiosity, hastily called the meeting to order. The dividend was duly declared; and, reserving the plate for the owners, there remained about an hundred pieces of eight, either in money or money’s worth, per share, the men taking a single share each, the officers more, in proportion to their rank. All Captain Dawkins’s winnings he handed to Pomfrett. This payment left him still in debt to us, on account of the compensation we demanded for the slave-dealing transaction.

“You had better remit the rest,” I said. “I would sooner have Dawkins in a good temper than the money, any day. You saw in the council how dangerous he is.”

“Ah, but I had the dog in hand,” said Pomfrett. “And I’ll pouch every penny, though Dawkins sweat blood for it.”

This had a fine sound, no doubt; but I thought it highly improbable that Mr Dawkins would indulge in any such painful exercise. And, indeed, so soon as the dividend had been declared, Mr Dawkins went about on another tack. He called another council to settle on our plan of action, and opened proceedings by roundly stating that the owners’ agent, after his secret transactions ashore—whatever they might have been—considered that enough had been done for the owners; that, as for the ship’s company, an hundred pieces of eight should surely content them; and that, in fine, we should sail for England. This was a method of stating the case which left Pomfrett nothing which he could openly challenge, since the statement was substantially true. He had to sit still under the implication, biting his nails, his face dark with passion, amid a clamour of protest. They would put to sea and cruise for the Spanish plate-ships; they would go southward, through Magellan’s Straits, and plunder the towns of the Pacific coast; they would do anything, in fact, and go anywhere; but they would never go home till they were glutted to the brim.

“Your proposition don’t seem what you might call popular, Mr Pomfrett,” says Dawkins, with a grin. “I reckon we’ll have to beat up for plunder yet, sir.”

“Lay your course, then,” says Pomfrett. “You’ll find me follow you, Mr Dawkins.”

So Dawkins laid his course, and the council agreed to follow it. Mr Dawkins would take boats up the river Coco, which flows out under Cape Gracias à Dios, and attempt the town of Cartagena. “It’s a rich town,” says he, “and never been taken before, that I know of. A virgin city, is Cartagena, and, by what I’ve heard, there’s diamonds in it, too.”

The resolution was carried by acclamation. The ship would not be ready for sea for a week; the men were tired of the beach, and here was a fine prospect of excitement, if no more. So some sixty men and officers embarked in the boats of the two ships, well furnished with small-arms and victuals, pulled out of the lagoon one morning, and vanished into the unknown. The agent, Morgan Leroux, and myself were left to finish the work of fitting the Blessed Endeavour for sea, with the rest of the men, to the number of twenty-five or thirty. There was plenty to be done, for, when the ship came to be examined for defects, it was evident she had never been properly overhauled before sailing from Bristol docks—another instance of the owners’ sinful negligence.

“These damned fat burgesses,” said the agent, with great bitterness, “would sooner see the whole expedition founder in sight of land than fetch a guinea out of their bursting money-bags.”

But, we gained three weeks’ respite by reason of this last bit of parsimony. The men worked fairly, after a fit of insubordination which brought six of them to the whipping-post the very day after Dawkins left. The agent stood by with a pistol in each hand and had three dozen well laid on, and there was but little trouble with them after that salutary example.

The Indians of those parts, a brown and peaceable folk, came out of the woods and trafficked fresh meat, hog’s flesh and turtle, yams and green stuff, for knives and beads and such toys. They made an encampment near by, and with their huts of branches and palm-leaves and our tents of sailcloth, and the camp-fires burning night and day, we made quite a settled little colony by the still waters of the great lagoon. As for Brandon Pomfrett, he followed Morgan Leroux like her shadow, greedily snatching a certain feverish pleasure in her society, though it is likely that the suspense in which we lived—except when we forgot all in the present, which happened oftener than you might suppose—infused a deal of discomfort into those tantalising relations. Soon or late, the inevitable Dawkins would come merrily back to us, with all his crew; ever the shadow of Murch menaced us from afar; there was the mysterious visitation at night of the strange boat, with its answering challenge, “Dead or alive,” still unexplained; and, looming ahead of us, the problem of the return voyage, sure to be long, hazardous, difficult, and very likely fatal. True, there was one solution, one way of escape, that Morgan Leroux urged us to follow—to set sail there and then in the Blessed Endeavour, with the crew we had, for the nearest port in English possession, fill up the complement, and away to England. But Pomfrett would not have it. He was bound, he said, to respect his compact with Dawkins.

“And do you suppose,” said Morgan, “that he won’t break faith with you, as soon as he gets a chance? I thought you had more sense.”

But the agent was firm. “Very well,” said Morgan, “you must even stay and be damned, if you’re so squeamish. But it’s hard on me, I’m bound to say, it’s hard on me. I never swore a silly oath to a treacherous old dog that couldn’t keep his word if he tried.”

“And what, in God’s name, does it matter who you swore to, if you did swear,” cried the wretched Pomfrett. And then they began to wrangle, and I left them to settle it between themselves. Be warned, ye bachelors, by this example; and when you ride with fortune, do not take a lady on the crupper. I think it likely that, if Morgan had persisted in her expostulations, Brandon would have yielded at last. Had she made a direct issue of the matter, and challenged him to choose between herself and Dawkins, between Morgan Leroux and his plighted word, I am sure he would have whistled his pledges down the wind and taken the lady; and I, for one, would not blame him. But Morgan never went so far; it was a temptation that must have allured her constantly, yet she never yielded. She had a good heart, this Morgan, as I always said. So we stayed, and in good time we were damned, even as Morgan had prophesied.

Dawkins and his party had been absent for three weeks; the Blessed Endeavour, all sound and seaworthy once more, had been warped off at high water, and lay out in the lagoon, moored fore and aft; and we were hoisting her heavy cargo in against Dawkins’s return, which we were hourly expecting. There was no watch kept; we were all extremely busy; and so, when there came the sudden boom of a heavy gun, fired somewhere close at hand, the echoes ringing from rock to rock, we were properly alarmed.

There, lying off the lagoon, was a great ship, the sun shining on her tower of canvas, turning her to a full-sailed ship of pearl. As we looked, the little black ball of a flag ran up the main halliards, broke free, and flew broad and black at the mast-head, flaunting its white device of the figure of death. It was the Wheel of Fortune. Murch had come at last.

XIV
Captain Murch takes Command

Those of Mr Murch’s men who were of our party set up a cheer for the Wheel of Fortune, but we ourselves were far from any such demonstration. Mr Murch was a dangerous enigma; we lay at his mercy; there was not a gunner left aboard, and there was no question of resistance. But pirates never fight for fun, and we did not anticipate bloodshed. We ran up English colours in response to their salute, and we saw them lowering a boat, which glided towards us across the intolerable glitter of the water, silent, save for the splash of oars, with Murch’s great figure sitting immobile in the stern-sheets. Morgan Leroux clasped Pomfrett’s arm. It was the first sign of dependence I had remarked in that courageous lady. The boatswain piped all hands to the side as she drew near, and Murch stepped aboard between the files of saluting men, as stately as an admiral. He greeted us with his customary solemn courtesy; his large and solemn countenance, netted all over with fine lines, betrayed no more emotion than a bronze mask; and, though he must have known of Morgan’s escape in La Modeste, yet, for all we knew to the contrary, he had supposed that the agent and his clerk were still ranging the woods by Porto-Bello. And here we were, a little family party on the quarterdeck of the Blessed Endeavour; and I leave you to imagine which of us felt the less at ease on that occasion.

“I am glad, Mr Pomfrett, to perceive you have found your ship again,” said Mr Murch, politely.

“I think,” retorted Pomfrett, “I can scarce thank you for carrying out that part of your agreement, Mr Murch.”

“You think not?” says Murch. “Well, well, I would not be too hasty, neither, sir. Youth is prone to be hasty. But we’ll talk of that, too, among other matters. I’ll have no knots in the cable—all shall be clear before we’ve done, Mr Pomfrett, be sure of that.”

I own that, for my part, my heart sank to hear the old spider closing upon us once more with his web of fine speeches, that seemed, as I fancied, to answer in some mysterious way to the net-work of hieroglyphics on his sombre countenance. We went down, then, to finish our talk in the privacy of the great cabin, which Mr Dawkins had left in a wretched disorder: books, charts, and instruments tossed pell-mell on the lockers, empty bottles rolling on the floor, and a heavy reek of tobacco.

“Mr Dawkins keeps a dirty ship, it seems,” quoth Murch. “But you and I will soon alter that, Mr Pomfrett.”

The owners’ agent fixed his blue eyes on the speaker. His glance had lost its look of mild and innocent enquiry of late; it was hard, even menacing, the eyelids drawn obliquely at their outer corners. Mr Pomfrett was beginning to know his own mind, you see.

“I stop not to enquire how you came hither,” continued Murch, returning look for look. “I make it a rule to deal with a situation as I find it; and I may tell you, we have no time at present to be swapping stories of adventure. They will serve for our amusement when we are fairly on the high seas, with Mr Dawkins hull-down on the lee. It’s with Dawkins we are first concerned, Mr Pomfrett—dead or alive, you know, dead or alive,” says Murch, with a peculiar intonation.

“Then it was your boat paid us a visit by night, under Cape Gracias?” said Pomfrett.

“Did you take us for ghosts, sir? Well, I may tell you, I have a singular belief that the grave would not hold me—no, nor the deep sea—had I a duty left undone. I have the highest opinion of your integrity, Mr Pomfrett; as a guardian of youth, your qualifications are, I doubt not, superior to my own; but even that belief cannot absolve me from my trust to a dead friend; nor can a similar confidence pretermit the obligations of my ward.”

He glanced sternly at Morgan Leroux, who was seated in her usual attitude, chin on hand, regarding him composedly, though she had gone, I thought, a little pale.

“But I accuse no one of such ingratitude,” Murch went on, “for, had you desired to escape me indeed, you would surely not have left two or three plundered ships to mark your way, broad as sign-posts, when it were so easy to scuttle them. No, no. I prefer to believe that you did but anticipate my plans a little, and to save time, the while I was engaged in Porto-Bello, you went to find Mr Dawkins for me. I thank you. You have found him. And so have I—in Cartagena. Of course, all the inhabitants had taken to the woods, with their possessions; it is singular how a man of Dawkins’s experience will never learn to close the earths before he bolts the prey; but there it is, and I was able to save him the trouble of collecting their dues from them. I have a bag or two of diamonds aboard the Wheel of Fortune, Mr Pomfrett, as to which I should like your opinion.”

He paused, thrusting his lower jaw a little forward, so that the semicircular wrinkles curving from nostril to chin deepened; his narrow eyes roved from face to face with a sort of stealthy derision, highly disagreeable to his audience. The old beast of prey had tracked us leisurely across the trackless sea, kept his ship out of sight while we lay under Cape Gracias à Dios, where he spied upon us with boats, and waited until we had settled with Dawkins for peace or war, as we were bound to settle soon or late. Had we fought with Dawkins, both sides would have been weakened, to Mr Murch’s advantage; but, as we concluded a treaty together, Mr Murch bided his time a little longer, until we were separated from Dawkins. Then, having us safely on the beach, Murch followed Dawkins up the River Coco and swept up the plunder of Cartagena while Dawkins did the fighting. Evidently, it were better to have Murch on our side than against us.

“Is Dawkins returning?” Pomfrett asked, curtly.

“I reckon Mr Dawkins is on the road,” answered Murch. “That is, unless the Spaniards have cut off his retreat, which they might have done, for Dawkins mislaid his boats. It was a pity they should be lost, so I even brought them down-stream myself; you can’t have too many boats, as a general rule.”

Pomfrett considered this intelligence; then he turned sharply upon Murch.

“Come, Mr Murch,” says he, “let us be clear, and no misunderstanding at all, as you might say yourself. You took Dawkins’s boats, you say. Was there any fighting?”

“I’m always charmed to answer questions when they bear to the point,” says Murch. “If you mean, was there any collision betwixt Dawkins and myself, I may tell you that the two parties never saw each other, with the exception of a trifling few men Mr Dawkins left to guard the boats.”

“Then I may take it that Dawkins, having captured the town and driven the inhabitants into the woods”—Pomfrett was conscientiously mastering the situation, as usual—“you robbed them and then came away in Dawkins’s boats, leaving him——”

“To pad the hoof, sir, like the old cut-purse he is,” Murch concluded, with a grave nod. “Now, are you satisfied, Mr Pomfrett? Very well. Then I have a proposal to make to you two gentlemen, to which I beg your serious attention.”

He leaned forward, rapping the table once or twice with the knuckles of his clenched fist, and glowering upon us like a thunderstorm.

“You and me have got to square accounts, Mr Pomfrett,” says he. “Now, I’m not a man that wastes two words where one will serve, and so I’ll ask but this question: Are you prepared to take my ward here, Morgan Leroux, in lawful and honourable marriage? Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Pomfrett answered prompt as an echo.

Mr Murch, his arm outstretched, the great corded hand resting on the table, stared at Pomfrett, quiet as a man of stone, for perhaps five seconds. Then, without moving any other part of him, he turned his eyes on Morgan Leroux.

“And what do you say, wench?”

Morgan’s wide black eyes blinked swiftly once or twice. “Yes,” said she, and closed her mouth and sat composedly watching, as before.

Murch’s whole figure relaxed, and he slowly drew himself upright. Then he nodded again, two or three times, very solemnly.

“I notice, Mr Pomfrett,” said he, “that you have not, at present, made any reference to myself in this matter.”

“Do you wonder at that, Mr Murch?” said Brandon.

“Ah,” said Mr Murch. “Hasty, hasty—hot and hasty, Mr Pomfrett, never got to church. If I am willing to forget the past, sir, surely you should be. I would have marooned you for reasons of my own, which figure well enough in the account betwixt my Maker and myself, let me tell you. But you have stolen away my ward, Mr Pomfrett—you took advantage of the ignorance and credulity of an innocent girl, unused to the world’s ways.”

“Let it go at that, uncle,” Morgan put in. “You’ll not better it. Cry quits, now.”

Murch was just a hair taken aback. “Here’s too much talk altogether,” he cried roughly. “Come. Yea or nay, and be done. Will you sail to-night for England, Mr Pomfrett?”

“With you?”

“Under me,” Mr Murch corrected him.

Pomfrett glanced at Morgan Leroux. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.

“See, now, how simple stands the matter,” Murch went on, with his weighty deliberation. “We sail in this ship, this very Blessed Endeavour, that has cost us so much endeavour, blessed or not; transfer the cargo from the Wheel of Fortune, take her to Barbadoes, and sell her there; the Governor will be glad to have her back again, for I may tell you, Mr Pomfrett, to show how fenced by the law is an enterprise, that his Excellency hath a share in the adventure. We will take your little bark as a tender, and sell her or not, as we find convenient. After Barbadoes, we cut sail for England, sir.”

Pomfrett sat silent, with his eyes on the floor. Morgan was steadfastly regarding him, with a distressed, appealing look that I could never have withstood for a moment, myself.

“Perhaps you think it strange in me to propose this arrangement,” continued Murch. “But if you will so consider the matter, ’tis entirely natural. My motive is pure self-interest—the mainspring of man’s actions here below. There is no other worth mentioning that influences any one; therefore, why deny it? I want to see my ward settled in marriage; the single estate is dangerous for females. I want to settle myself, in a manner which shall enable me to move in the society of my equals—a society,” says Murch, with dignity, “from which I have been too long estranged. I see in you, Mr Pomfrett, a respectable gentleman who shall serve me to both these ends. I need not, I think, say more.”

Still the owners’ agent sat silent, frowning at the floor. He was inly writhing on the horns of a most savage dilemma. All he valued in life drew him to close with Murch. On the one hand, he could see his owners satisfied and himself married and wealthy, all his troubles done. And on the other, only poor old Dawkins and a famine-stricken crew struggling down the river-banks, through the forest, with nothing in the world to hope for save the agent’s word of honour—the good faith of the supercargo with whom Mr Dawkins had dealt so crookedly. And why should a man keep faith with that treacherous old person, Dawkins? Perhaps in this painful crisis Mr Pomfrett recalled his own proud words: “What does it matter whom you swore to, if you did swear?” And, again, what use to Dawkins in refusing to take advantage of Murch’s offer. Murch, with his men and guns, had us all in the hollow of his hand. Still, the fact remained, that Mr Dawkins was rightful captain of the Blessed Endeavour, ostensibly commanding her for the owners; and for the owners’ agent to acquiesce in Murch’s suggestion were nothing less than to make terms with a thief and a robber. In some such guise must the problem have framed itself in the agent’s mind while he sat with his face averted from Morgan’s burning eyes. He broke silence at last, raising his head and turning to Murch, without looking towards Morgan.

“It seems to me, Mr Murch, I’ve no more choice in the matter than any skipper of an unarmed merchant ship you choose to lay aboard.”

“Why, there’s always the beach, Mr Pomfrett,” Murch returned. “I shall be glad to have you with me, sir, but God knows I’ll force my kindness on no man living, and there you have it, once for all. Now, I would not hurry you, sir, but time presses. Which is it to be?”

“I’ll sail under you, Mr Murch,” said Pomfrett, and the face of Morgan Leroux lightened like a breaking sky. Murch never altered a line of his countenance—that great dark face, which began to oppress me, like some monstrous visage seen in a dream.

“And really, Mr Pomfrett, I think you are well advised,” said Murch; and for my part, I agreed with the old buccaneer. I did not guess, as you will see, the extent of the supercargo’s mental reservations.

And that evening, before sunset, three ships sailed from Caratasca Cays. Mr Murch and his ward sailed in his ship, the Wheel of Fortune, Murch’s first mate had charge of ours, the Blessed Endeavour, while the owners’ agent, all forsworn, and his accomplice, Harry Winter, had command of his Modesty ship, with her original crew. But, before these arrangements were complete, I have a little episode to relate, of a nature so tender that it demands a chapter to itself.

XV
Which contains the Only Ostensible Love-Scene in the Book

The conversation of lovers, as related by poet and romancer, is apt to raise a serious doubt in the mind of the reader. For, it is the very nature and rule of such intercourse that it be not carried on in presence of a witness, and that nothing concerning it be divulged by the parties themselves. How, then, did the chronicler gain the information he is so incontinent to impart, if not by hearing and observation? He might, indeed, write of his own experience, disguisedly; but, he should be ashamed to do that, and we can place little faith in the records of a gentleman so unscrupulous. He may, of course, paint from imagination, but, obviously, in that case, we are as far from the truth as ever. So difficult is this problem that some have even averred that the passion of love, as depicted by the said poet and romancer, is nothing but an invention of the ingenious artist—an unsubstantial paradise created by them for their pleasure. The mark of the true lover, say the precisians, is a contented silence. For my own part, I would not be taken to possess an opinion on the subject. But I have to record what did actually fall under my own observation; and if it be a rare distinction to have listened to a pair of lovers conversing, that distinction is mine. I did not seek the occasion; I could not avoid it; it came to me.

When the conversation related in the last chapter was ended, Mr Murch left the cabin and went on deck. We could hear his great voice booming out a string of peremptory orders. Now, you must understand that the declining sun, shooting a brilliant beam through the porthole, divided the cabin into dusky halves, so that, from where I sat humbly in the background, Pomfrett’s face, seen through the shaft of misty radiance, appeared as though floating bodiless in the brown shadow. He was staring at Morgan Leroux with a most tragical expression. Of the lady I could see no more than a shadowy apparition. So they sat, silent, for a long minute. Then Morgan spoke.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said. It was a new voice; the masculine tone had given place to an accent of such a caressing endearment that I behooved to remind them of the presence of a third party. But neither took any heed.

Pomfrett made no reply, gazing upon the lady with a look of such despair you would think he was under sentence of hanging, instead of promotion to matrimony. Then Morgan arose and came to him, and it was a woman, and no wild hoyden playing the gallant, who kneeled down beside him.

“Well, are you happy now?” she said, again.

Still Pomfrett answered nothing, nor did he lift his hand to touch the pretty head that was bowed upon his knee, but the muscles of his cheek twitched a little, and his mouth set hard. Poor owners’ agent! he was sore beset.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” said Morgan, lifting a face all melted and broken, as the thin ice on still water breaks and melts in the winter sun.

“My dear, my dear,” said Pomfrett, “I don’t know what to say.” He stopped.

“Say nothing, then,” quoth Morgan, contentedly.

“Ah, but I must,” groaned Pomfrett. “I must keep faith with my owners, and I must keep faith with you, and how to do both?”

“We’ll find a way, somehow,” Morgan answered, soothing him as though he were a child.

“But will you trust me, whatever I do—whatever I have to do?” he cried.

“That means you are going to do something foolish,” said Morgan. “What are you planning, my dear?”

“Ay, but will you?” said he, with what seemed to the listener a superfluous anxiety.

“You are but a foolish boy,” Morgan answered, and reached forth her hands to draw down his stubborn head. I rose and stole from the cabin.

And a little later, as I have said, the three ships stood out from Caratasca, and those lovers were parted. Murch would have his ward aboard with him, and very right. We found the Modesty ship but a dismal craft without the gentleman-adventurer. But the two had had their time, the time and chance that come to all, they say; and never again were we three shipmates to sail in company.

XVI
Mr Dawkins gives Us a Little Surprise

Now, from Caratasca Cays to the island of Barbadoes is near eight hundred sea-miles; say a week’s voyage with a fair wind; and in about that time we entered the muddy water that for several leagues surrounds the island of Barbadoes. That evening Admiral Murch signalled to us to lay-to, since he would not make the harbour in the dark. Night came at a stride, and ere the other two ships had their riding-lights displayed Pomfrett had set sail, had gone about, and the Modesty ship was heading back again for Caratasca.

All the way we had been discussing plans, but where was the use of plans when we could see no further than the ship’s bolt-sprit? Had we slipped away before, Murch would have chased us; now that he lay in sight of harbour, he would very likely let us go, and say no more about it. Pomfrett was going to keep faith with Dawkins after all; his owners must take their chance; and as to the third obligation to which he stood committed, that must wait likewise. The little blind boy with the bow and arrows must wait his turn; an exercise, after all, to which he should be well accustomed. Poor Morgan Leroux must even suffer; but I’ll wager that her sufferings were lighter than her lover’s. During the voyage to Barbadoes he would spend hours beside the taffrail staring at the Blessed Endeavour, where she leaned and rose and dipped, a cable’s length to starboard; and if he caught but a glimpse of Morgan, and a wave of her kerchief, I suppose he thought himself lucky. Now, as he held the wheel himself, his face was set like a death’s head, dim in the gleaming dark; and when the boatswain came aft, to enquire delicately, as a gentleman of fortune should, the meaning of this right-about-face, Pomfrett struck the man on the mouth, consigning him to perdition. Our friend went grumbling to the waist; and thereafter we had much ado to stay the men from breaking into open mutiny. A gay voyage we had of it; but, what with fair words and hard blows, we made Caratasca Cays at last, and dropped anchor in the great lagoon once more. Never were two mariners gladder to see the beach; yet there at the water’s edge, huddled about the camp-fire, was the fount and origin of all our troubles. Not sixty men, by what we could make out from the deck; perhaps twenty, or less; but there was Dawkins, whom no disaster seemed to quell. We saw him standing apart, and heard him roaring orders, while the men ran hither and thither, apparently putting themselves in a posture of defence; and the brown Indians came out upon the top of the beach, and stood looking on, in the shadow of the forest. We had a boat lowered, and rowed ashore with a white shirt hoisted on an oar, in case these desperate gentlemen should think fit to fire on their best friends. Dawkins suffered us to land in silence; then he broke out in a voice that scared the sea-birds, brandishing a great pistol.

“What now, Mr Pomfrett? Where’s Mr Murch? Lying-to round the point, I reckon. I might ’a’ known it from the first, but I believed in you, God curse me for a fool. Where’s Murch, I say?”

“I don’t know,” says Pomfrett, with great composure. “I left him off Barbadoes. I thought you’d want the ship, captain.”

Dawkins dropped his pistol hand and glowered at him, shaking his head. “You’re right there, shipmate,” he growled. “We do want a ship—a little. Ah, but I ain’t satisfied yet, Mr Supercargo, not by a long reckoning. Nor yet these here poor gentlemen o’ fortune—what’s left of ’em—they ain’t satisfied, if I don’t mistake.”

They were not, to judge by their furious looks and questions, as they crowded about us; and Pomfrett there and then called a council. He had taken his resolution; they should sail to England if they chose to come aboard; or—in Mistress Morgan’s phrase—they could stay where they were and be damned. This was no occasion, you see, for circumlocution; everyone spoke their mind roundly, except Mr Dawkins, who held an unaccountable silence. As for gratitude to us for having rescued them, these gentlemen, whatever they felt, were careful to conceal any spark of that uncomfortable emotion.

“You talk very big, Mr Supercargo,” said one. “What! Go to England and rot in the streets, after all what we’ve done? A pleasant thing, to be sure! A proper way to talk to gentlemen of fortune! Just cast your eye round you. Now where would you be if we up and took the blessed ship, what belongs to us as much as you, I reckon?” And the observation was much applauded.

“Just cast your eye over there,” returned Pomfrett, jerking his thumb to where the little Modesty ship sat like a butterfly on the water, “and you’ll see a couple of guns trained on you.” They looked, and, sure enough, there was the red glimmer of the lighted matches, as we had taken care there should be. “Sit still, shipmates,” says Pomfrett. “My gunner isn’t a patient man; and if any of you was to give way to his feelings, there might be an accident.”

Pomfrett was master of the situation for the time; he had but to lift his hand, and a couple of rounds of grape would be whistling about the ears of the unfortunate pirates. So he gained himself a hearing; and when he set before them the posture of affairs, and told them he had sacrificed all to keep faith with Captain Dawkins, they believed him. Landsmen would still have suspected the agent of some secret duplicity; but sailors are a folk both cunning and simple; and they will accept plain dealing with the confidence of children. Pomfrett dictated his terms, implacable as a slaver captain: it was England or the beach; and, since no better might be, they sulkily elected for England. After all, every man had his little gleanings out of Cartagena, though Murch had reaped the harvest; and we might pick up a ship or two on the voyage. Dawkins gave his vote with the others; for, in all questions of policy, save the questions of chasing and fighting, the captain ranks with the rest of the council. He made no remark at the time, but while the men were preparing to embark he drew Pomfrett aside.

“Mr Pomfrett,” says he, “you’ve dealt fair by me—no man couldn’t deal fairer—and I’ll deal fair by you, so help me God! Now, to show you,” Dawkins screwed up an eye, with his head on one side. “You remember that little business of the glass bottle, maybe?”

“An old trick; lucky for you, ’twas new to me,” says the agent, shortly. He did not enjoy these reminiscences.

“An old trick, was it? Why, now, I reckon Murch put you up to that—eh?” returned Dawkins, with a cunning leer. “He don’t believe in no messages in no glass bottles from no Captains de Graaf and Captains Grammont—not he. Eh?”

“Not very likely, Mr Dawkins.”

“Not very likely, as you say, shipmate. No, not likely. Jevon Murch would never be bammed by a simple little dodge like that, would he? So he don’t believe in it?”

“No, he don’t,” answered Pomfrett, wondering what the old rogue might mean by this persistency.

“Why, then, if he don’t—and I reckon he don’t—that’s a good thing for you and me, shipmate,” Dawkins went on, with great deliberation. “And why, says you? Why is this same old Dawkins, this poor old broken-down forsaken buccaneer on his beam-ends, a-talking like this here? That’s what you’re a-thinking, shipmate, at this blessed minute. Has he took leave of his senses, owing to hunger and disapp’intment, and the blessed sun, or what not, you’re asking of yourself.” Dawkins paused in this singular adjuration, his little eyes glowing under his penthouse brows, took a step forward, laid his hand on Pomfrett’s breast, and spoke low. “It’s true,” says he. “The bottle’s true. So far as I know, mind ye, that is. So far as I know, and I’ll swear it on the Book. I didn’t find that there same bottle, nor that message, mind ye, but I found another bottle and another message, and then I lost ’em ashore in a island port. Drunk, I reckon. But not before I’d a-learned the writing by heart. Gamaliel wrote it out from what I rec’lected, so he did, and Gamaliel, he supplied the bottle. And Gamaliel, he thought it was all a bam. But,” said Mr Dawkins, with indescribable emphasis, “it ain’t!”

He fell back a step, and Pomfrett stood regarding him with amazement.

“Now, by your leave, commander, we’ll lay that pretty little ship o’ yours for Catoche Bay on the coast of Yucatan—all as we was, commander, all as we was at the start, and on the way home, too,” Dawkins ended.

And so we did. But the ship had to be provisioned for the long voyage to England; and, taking advantage of the safe anchorage and the traffic of the friendly Indians, we spent a week in Caratasca Lagoon, getting wood, water, and victuals. After all, there was no hurry. Murch had sailed for England by this time, in all likelihood; his course lay north and east of the islands, while ours lay west and north of them; and we might consider ourselves secure from Murch, who, moreover, was doubtless glad to be rid of us. But, with him went Morgan Leroux; and although the agent, in reward of his fidelity, saw a chance of retrieving a great part of his owners’ losses, he went about heavy-eyed and silent. He was never quiet, working doggedly all day at this and that; nor did he sleep much. He would walk about the camp, along the shore and back again, or, if he were on shipboard, up and down the deck at night; then he would sit down where he was and fall asleep for a little while; and then he would wake again, and again take to his restless wandering. But when we were fairly at sea his melancholy lightened a little, and when we dropped anchor in Catoche Bay, on a fine night of moonlight, he nearly forgot his woes. The glimmering surf ran about us in a half-circle, thundering upon a zone of silver beach; on either hand rose tall cliffs, all black and silver in the moonlight, and beyond, the familiar dark barrier of forest, rising upon dim hills. Here, then, was the haven we had come so far to find. On one side of the bay the forest was cleft in a black notch; a few pines straggled thence upon the beach, bordering a gleam of running water. “At a point on nothe mainland Yucatan two leagues due south from the hed of Catoche Bay, having the red rocke where the stream flows out in line with the extreemest projection of cliffe on west horn of bay.” Dawkins had the marks by heart, as he had said. Now, the crew had been told nothing of the matter; no one aboard knew of the treasure save Dawkins and Pomfrett and I; so that, if by any evil chance we found ourselves deceived, there would be the less discontent.

We three, then, had a boat ashore at dawn, with a cargo of empty water-barrels, which were to be filled. This made the ostensible object of our landing. There were the marks, sure enough,—a square lump of red, glistening rock standing alone on the stony beach; and, aligning the rock with the extreme point of the west horn of the bay, we took bearings, and found the line to run nearly due south. Leaving the men to fill the barrels, the three explorers struck through the forest. Dawkins trotted forward like a hound on the trail, panting and pounding, his big face shining with sweat, a humming cloud of flies hovering about him and clustering unheeded in patches upon his skin. There was a curious fixed purpose in his face; he kept glancing at us, where we ran on either side of him, with little, quick, ugly glances; and I could not but remember that, were we out of the way, the whole of the prize would fall to Mr Dawkins. He carried a brace of pistols and a sword; but so did we, though it’s true we were no great hands at the use of these weapons. We had travelled thus, with scarce a word spoken, for about a couple of leagues, when the little river, running in a deep gorge, curved to meet us; and there we were, in a grove of acajou trees, as the message had described.

“‘The felled tree,’” quoted Dawkins, “‘bridging the stream between two groves of acajou trees.’” And there it was; we could see a piece of the trunk, as we hurried forward through the trees. I’ll not deny that, in the few moments during which we traversed the grove, the agent, and I suppose myself, betrayed as much excitement as Dawkins. This elusive hoard of silver, this will-o’-the-wisp treasure, for which we had come so far and suffered so much—did it lie under our hand at last? The next moment we pulled up short, as though struck by a bullet, and stood staring and dismayed.

XVII
The Luck is Fairly Out

It was not much we saw: only a litter of white, fresh chips, pieces of bark, and the new-cut butt end of the felled tree, facing us; but a thunderbolt crashing at our feet would not have stunned the party more effectually. That tree had been felled by white men’s axes but a few days since; so much we perceived at the first glance; the next, showed us a small object standing upright on the middle of the great trunk, giving back the strong sunlight with a glitter that dazzled the eye. Dawkins, with an incoherent mutter of speech, in which we could distinguish the word “Murch,” pointed towards it. The hand he lifted held a pistol, whose muzzle wavered in the air. What was Mr Dawkins doing with a pistol? The other hand held a pistol, too; he had drawn them from his sash as he ran. His eyes were fixed in his head, his jaw was a little dropped, the veins in his neck stood out like cords, and his face was of a purplish colour. The next moment he fell forward on his face and lay motionless. The poor old buccaneer was stricken with a fit. We opened a vein in his huge arm with the point of a clasp-knife, and presently his eyelids fluttered and he seemed to revive. So, having bound up the wound, we took away his pistols—for fear of accidents—propped him up, and turned to business.

Pomfrett walked along the felled tree, the open knife shining in his hand, stooped, cut the lashings that held the little and bright object, and returned with a Dutch flask in his hand. It was securely corked, and within was a scrap of paper. Mr Dawkins, with a haggard eye upon our proceedings, and speaking with a thick utterance, was understood to claim the bottle as his own. It may have been, since the origin of our misfortunes had been left in the great cabin of the Blessed Endeavour, which ship, if the reader hath had patience to follow our bewildering exchanges in the matter of ships, was now displaying the flag of Captain Jevon Murch. For this was the message written upon the paper which was contained in that accursed flask:

“Captain Murch to Captain Dawkins or
Captain Pomfrett. As the case may be.

The prey shall be to him that finds It and the Longest Liver takes All.”

Captain Dawkins merely gaped when he heard these words. But perhaps he was not in a condition to be stirred by any emotion, for it may be that we had taken more blood from him than was absolutely requisite to ease his distemper. He might not have entertained the notion of shooting his partners in the back; but, then, what was he doing with the pistol? Now he could neither shoot nor walk; and, as we had no mind to carry a couple of hundredweight of limp buccaneer through the forest, Captain Pomfrett sent me for a bearer party. When I returned with the men the two captains were sound asleep in the shade, the empty bottle standing between them, a sarcastic little monument of futility. The men naturally concluded that their officers were sleeping the sleep of the drunken. Down in the gorge, on the other side of the stream, a cave opened in the rocky bank, loose boulders and fresh earth strewn about its mouth. Pomfrett had, he said, made a careful exploration, but had not found so much as a ducat. Every particle of the treasure, if treasure there had been, was gone.

The next day we put to sea, and laid the course for England. Since all was lost, we had but the one thought—to seek Mr Murch until we found him. Now, Murch must have sailed directly from Barbadoes to Catoche Bay, gaining a few days’ start of us the while we were victualling ship in Caratasca Lagoon, on the bare chance of Dawkins’s yarn being true after all; and, to all appearance, he had secured the booty. His ship was crammed with plunder; he had nothing to fear from the pursuit of the little Modesty ship, even supposing she had ever come to Catoche Bay, which to Mr Murch must have seemed an event by no means certain; and so, we had little doubt, Mr Murch had borne away from Catoche Bay for England. If so, we were following on his track; if so, barring accidents, soon or late we should come up with him; and then—why, then, the longest liver should take all. And of all the hopeless enterprises that ever a shipload of poor ruined adventurers embarked upon, I thought, as we cut sail from Catoche Bay, that ours was the most desperate. True, we might have gone a-privateering again, but Brandon Pomfrett was immovably fixed to sail for England. It remained to be seen how long he could keep his resolution in the face of a mutinous crew.

As for Dawkins, he lay on deck beneath an awning; ready to give sailing orders to the boatswain, did that officer require direction; sleeping, smoking, drinking as much as he could get by fear or favour; and playing a dreary card-game, his right hand against his left.

“This is poor old Dawkins’s last voyage, I reckon,” he would maunder. “Poor old Dawkins, what never done no harm, no more than was strickly necessary, as to every man. Murch has bammed us, as I knowed he would. I knowed it from the first. Why did I ever go to Murch in Barbadoes, says you? I don’t know—I don’t know a mite. We was shipmates, you see, and how was I to know he’d up and hoist the old flag before a man could turn around in his bunk? And especially, moreover, how was I to know—how,” said Mr Dawkins, with extreme bitterness, “in the devil was I to know, as he knew all about Cap’n Morgan’s little game? Ah, well, it’s fate, that’s what it is. No man can’t go against his fate. But it’s hard on a old seaman—hard it is, and no mistake. Now I only wanted for to lay up a store of victuals, and live quiet in amongst green trees, and the birds a-singing, and read a chapter of the Bible, Sundays—only wanted what many a tallow-faced landsman who’ve never risked his miserable skin gets natural, and never feels no gratitude for—not him, the swab! Ah, well, there’s many a man upon this cruise what never will come back. We’re a-sailing for the Golden Gates, shipmates. The luck’s out in this here barky, sure enough. You’d better take and heave old Dawkins overboard. He’d thank you for the service—he would, by the bones of the deep!”

This gloomy spirit infected the whole ship’s company: a cursed cruise, a coffin ship with the devil aboard of her, and a lunatic commander,—these were the common expressions. I think we were even disappointed when day by day went by without misfortune. But we had no sooner cleared the Bahamas than the trouble began. The wind, which had hitherto held wonderfully fair, turned contrary, and for three weeks we had a continual succession of foul winds. The Modesty ship spoomed along before the gale, blown clean out of her course into the midst of the Atlantic. Now, we had reckoned our provisions to last, on a very exact allowance, for three months, the time in which we might fairly have hoped to make the voyage. Behold us, then, three weeks out of our reckoning and a thousand miles or so farther from home; the sails bad, the cordage rotten, the ship leaky; the water-casks decayed, the water short, and what there was in very ill condition. Christmas Day found us heading northward again, but on dismally short allowance. And as we neared the Line, the dried beef, being insufficiently cured, began to breed worms. Then the men fell sick with a dreadful illness that caused them to swell from the ankles upward, until they could scarce draw breath. Their pain and misery were so extreme that many lost their wits, and some leaped overboard and were drowned. Within a fortnight twenty-seven men died out of forty-one, and of the fourteen remaining, but six were fit for any duty. Mr Dawkins, who had by this time quite recovered his seizure and its treatment, kept his health, and did the work of three; of the rest, Captain Pomfrett, myself, and the boy who waited on us were the only sound persons aboard. This, our good fortune, may have been due to our berthing aft, away from the crowding and noisome stench of the waist and forecastle. The six men were barely able to man the capstan; to go aloft was beyond them; and so the whole labour of the ship devolved upon the three officers—Captain Pomfrett, Mr Dawkins, and myself. The captain and master took in and hove out the topsails, while I attended the spritsail, and the three took turns at the helm. If any care to imagine for themselves the dreadful misery of that voyage, let them do so; it is not my purpose to tell of it further; and, indeed, the thing were not to be figured in words.

We were either in the Bay of Biscay or some leagues to the westward, in the same latitude, when the wind, increasing suddenly at nightfall to a fine t’gallant gale, carried away the topsails and spritsail. The ship drove before the wind, helpless, but still, the wind blowing south by east, keeping on her course; and the sea, though running high, was not extraordinary dangerous. The next day, the wind abating, we contrived to rig some sort of sail; and so, for sundry days and nights, we continued. I cannot tell how long it was, for we lost all count of time; until, as near as we could judge, we were off Brest, though out of sight of land; and here the wind, rising again, drove us into Berehaven in Ireland.

The low and desolate hills, all covered with snow, rose upon the wild grey sky in the dawning of the day, and at their inhospitable feet we pitched the ship ashore. You may think we were glad to touch the beach again, and I suppose we were, but I have no remembrance of any sensation save an intolerable desire to sleep. The Irishmen came from their wretched huts and helped us to get in what sail there was, and to moor the ship, charging so extortionately for their very unskilful labours that the captain had to pay these savages ten pounds.

We got fresh food and water from the Irishmen, paying for them at the same high rate; and finding that after five or six days the sick men began to pluck up, we declared the dividend of plunder, and left them to go whither they would; the captain, Mr Dawkins, and myself taking passage in a fishing-boat for Bristol.

XVIII
Hooky Gamaliel pays the Score

We fetched up at Bristol docks in twilight and a flurry of snow. Let the darkness blacken and the snow fall thick and fast, the night could not be too dark and too foul for three broken buccaneers, who only wanted to slink unregarded through the blinded streets. Dawkins headed straight for John Gamaliel’s tavern. “Hooky Gamaliel,” growled Mr Dawkins, “owes this here ship’s company three months’ provisions, and I reckon he’s going to pay. I’ll burn his house over his skulking head for a noggin of rum. It’s going to be hot for Hooky John—damned hot, by the bones of the deep!”

Pomfrett had no desire to face his uncle—and his aunt—on an empty stomach, and so, wrapped in boat-cloaks, we followed Mr Dawkins. With his great head and shoulders bowed, the old pirate forged ahead, ploughing through the snow and leaving great formless footprints, like some monstrous beast of prey. When we came into the narrow alley and saw the red firelight gleam in the tavern windows, Dawkins stopped and turned. “Shipmates,” says he, “you follow old Dawkins’s lead, will you? He knows how to deal with a Jew, does Dawkins. You put your trust in him once more, will you, shipmates?”

“Carry on, old gentleman,” says Pomfrett. “Don’t bring the constables on us, that’s all.”

“Never fear for that. I reckon Gamaliel would scuttle his ship sooner than see the janissaries a-boarding her. Ho! never fear for that.” With a chuckle, he began to chant, in a hoarse whisper:

“Ye fancy men, now turn again,

For we’re out on the chase to-night.”

So three cloaked figures, white with snow, entered the room, where seamen were sitting at their drink, in the warmth and light, Gamaliel, in shirt-sleeves and clean apron, attending upon them. We sat down in a corner, a low partition fencing us from the company, and Gamaliel stepped briskly to us. Our faces were hidden by hat and cloak, so that he should not recognise us at once.

“Give you good-evening, Mr Gamaliel,” says Dawkins, thrusting forth a huge hand, which the other must needs grasp. “A word in your ear, shipmate.” Gamaliel cried out as Dawkins drew him downward with a single powerful wrench, so that the Jew’s distorted and staring face was close to his own.

“Another noise like that, Hooky, and I’ll twist your arm out,” says Dawkins, in a savage whisper. “Now, what time d’ye close?—but it don’t matter—you close early to-night, d’ye see. You close now, immediate, and smart about it. There’s business to discuss, Hooky. Now bring rum, and then clear out this mess of swabs. Smart, now!”

He jerked Gamaliel upright again, as though the wiry Jew were pliant as a figure of straw. We sat and drank our liquor, and very good it was, and watched Gamaliel going from one to another of his guests, whispering confidentially to them. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was—and in a house like Gamaliel’s a sudden need of departure was no novelty—the argument was effectual. Within half an hour or so the room was clear, the shutters up, and the door locked. Then Dawkins removed hat and cloak and stretched himself at ease before the fire, we following his example. Gamaliel stood contemplating us, his head bent a little forward and one side, his shoulders drooped forward, his crooked hands loosely hanging at his side, all as we remembered. There was discomfiture in his face and a furtive uneasiness, and now and again his glance turned to the door, and he seemed to listen. For once the effusive Jew appeared at a loss for words; he gave us no greeting, asked us no questions, expressed no surprise at our presence there.

“What d’ye stand staring for?” roared Dawkins. “Fetch supper, Hooky; fetch aft the supper, will ye?”

“There’s but little in the house, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew. “What would you fancy? A bit of Dutch cheese, or——”

“Cheese, was it? Cheese, eh? You hear him, shipmates? Now look you here, Hooky,” said Mr Dawkins, getting up, “you and me will go-look-see the store-room in company, my lad.”

He took the little Jew by collar and elbow, and ran him from the room. We heard the old buccaneer’s great voice booming in the back premises, and presently he returned, driving Gamaliel before him. The Jew was loaded to the chin with victuals. A couple of chickens, a noble round of beef, a prime tongue, two or three loaves of bread, and a round of Gloucester cheese were piled pell-mell in his arms.

“Lookee here, here’s victuals for an admiral, and more where they come from,” shouted Dawkins. “You thieving cur, you spawn of Moses, spread the table, spread all the tables. There’s going to be a party.” He deftly filched a bunch of keys from the innkeeper’s pocket, for the little man was helpless in the buccaneer’s experienced gripe, and would have quitted the room, but the Jew, who was biting and tearing by this time, clung to his skirts.

Dawkins wrenched him loose and flung him on the floor. “Keep the Hebrew stirring, mates,” says he, and went out, bellowing at the pitch of his voice.

“Hi-yeo, messmates, hi-yeo! Any poor seaman want rations and rum? Hi-yeo! Call—call again.”

And immediately there arose cries like the cries of famished animals, deep-mouthed shoutings, and a beating upon doors, from all parts of the old, rambling house, above, beneath, and behind. Mr Dawkins was accomplishing a general gaol-delivery, letting loose the poor mariners whom Gamaliel used to entrap. He would lodge and board the guileless seamen until their money was out, when he would lock them up, take their clothes in pawn, and starve them till he could sell them aboard ship. A crimp’s is a good trade.

Gamaliel lay on the floor for a minute, then picked himself up and went to laying out the victuals, with no apparent sign of injury. Dawkins’s way with the persecuted race seemed effectual enough. Still the Jew kept stopping and listening, with an eye cocked on the door. As for Pomfrett and myself, who sat placidly thawing the salt from our bones by the fire, he never looked at us, but hurried to and fro, stopping and going on again, like a man in some deadly suspense. There was something weighing on Gamaliel’s mind besides the terror of the masterful Dawkins. He had but a few minutes’ respite. From within came the shouts of seamen adrift in the dark house, demanding the way to the tap-room, and the hurrying of footsteps on the boards; and then did Hooky Gamaliel entrench himself behind the table where we were sitting, the perspiration starting in beads upon his face and fear looking out of his eyes.

“Gentlemen, you’ll not see a man murdered in his own house,” says he, clutching Pomfrett’s shoulder. “You’ll stand by me—gentlemen—an old servant of your good uncle’s, Mr Pomfrett—and I’ll stand by you, for there’s trouble coming, Mr Pomfrett, and I know——”

“Hands off,” says Pomfrett, shaking himself free. “Who’s going to murder you, you fool? You fill your lodgers’ bellies, Gamaliel, that’s what you’ve got to do.”

“Oh, this is a horrible business, a dreadful business,” groaned the Jew, clutching himself with both hands, since he could hold on to no one else. “O Mother of Moses, here they come!”

A tall man, his shock of hair ruffled all over his head, and naked as he was born, came rushing into the room, trailing a blanket behind him, and stopped short, dazzled by the light. The next moment he caught sight of the trembling Jew, and made a short rush in his direction, dropping his blanket. Pomfrett stopped him, his open hand against the creature’s face.

“Easy, now,” says he, gently. “Easy, easy all. I’m commander here. Sit down, and take your rations quiet.”

“I want that man, I want that man,” says the naked one, trying to edge past Pomfrett, with his fierce eyes fastened on the Jew.

“Well, you can’t have him, d’ye see,” returned Captain Pomfrett, in the same tone of quiet persuasion. “Obey orders, now, and sit you down. Rations is what you want.”

The room was filling with a little crowd of wild figures, some in shirt and drawers, some in a kilt with a rug about their shoulders, one or two with a filthy blanket held about their naked body. They came crowding about us, a glare of eyes, a gallery of drawn, hungry faces, a hubbub of oaths and clamourings for the blood of Hooky Gamaliel. I suppose, if we had not fenced him in the chimney-corner, the Jew would have been put on the fire straightway. Pomfrett faced the mob with his hands in his pockets, composedly expostulating with the hungry, furious wretches until they quieted down and suddenly turned upon the victuals. They fell upon the meat and drink like a pack of hounds, tearing the meat with teeth and fingers, cramming fowl and beef and bread and tongue all at once, knocking the necks from bottles, pouring down wine and brandy from quart pots.

In the comparative silence that ensued there came the sounds of battering upon a door somewhere upstairs. The Jew, hearkening with an agonised countenance, again took Pomfrett by the sleeve. “Take him away, Mr Pomfrett, take the bloody scoundrel away from that door; don’t let him get in, or there’ll be worsh than murder in a minute. O, this is worsh than all!” In his agitation his accents suddenly thickened to the Hebrew pronunciation.

“What’s in the room, then?” says Pomfrett, freeing himself from the Jew’s hold with his former action.

“Hush, speak lower. Bend down.” As Gamaliel whispered in his ear there came the loud noise of a pistol shot, a momentary silence, then renewed bellowings and hammerings.

“Stay here,” said Pomfrett to me, and ran from the room. The clamour ceased, and the Jew wiped his brow with the back of his shaking hand. All this passed totally unheeded by the gorging crew of released mariners; they scarce looked up from their victuals when, a few minutes after Pomfrett had quitted the room, Mr Dawkins entered it.

That robustious buccaneer came softly in and sat down heavily beside me. The frightened, furtive look had passed from Gamaliel’s face to his own; indeed, by some unexplained process, the two seemed to have changed places. Now that the worst, apparently, had come upon him, the Jew was settling into a stolid resignation, the indispensable attribute of his race, while Dawkins sat uneasily listening, his eyes upon the door.

“And I might ’a’ known it,” he said, presently, without shifting his glance. “I surely might ’a’ known it all along.” He bent a savage look on Gamaliel for a moment. “I’ll pay you for this, Hooky. Lord strike and blast me to ashes where I sit, but I’ll pay you for this.”

“Mother of Moshesh, how could I help it? You know better than that, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew, sullenly.

“I know this,” says Dawkins, “that the minute Mr Murch sets foot inside this here door I’ll shoot you like a blessed dog, Hooky.”

The name of Murch struck me with a horrid shock of amazement. But the Jew was unmoved.

“You’d better let me go and stop him, then,” was all he said. Dawkins, unheeding, addressed himself to me, still keeping a watchful eye on the door while he talked.

“I reckon you’re surprised, Mr Winter, at what I said. And I was surprised, upstairs, and no mistake. Now I ain’t surprised at anything any more. Dawkins is ready, ay, and willing, to believe everything, like the man in the Bible. Now, here we sit, you and me and Hooky, and Mr Murch within a cable of us, very likely. He’s a-coming to supper, is Murch. Which there won’t be much of it left, seemingly.” Dawkins shot a glance upon the revelling seamen, under cover of whose increasing clatter and clamour his own talk went forward, unheard by any save the Jew and myself. “A nice little family party, ain’t it?” Mr Dawkins looked anything but cheerful at the prospect. “You rec’lect, I daresay, Mr Winter,” Dawkins went on, in a kind of despairing calm, “a—a person, calling himself—I should say herself—no, itself, dash me—Morgan Leroux? Well, it’s upstairs, Mr Winter. As sure as sunrise, Morgan Leroux was behind that there door I were knocking at so politeful, and he—she or it, curse me for a poor blind, but she’s like a lady to look at, now, at any rate—she up and fired through the door. But she missed her aim. Then Mr Pomfrett come up, and—well, it’s all right now, I reckon. As for poor old Dawkins, he wasn’t wanted no more. So he come down. And when Cap’n Murch comes aboard, why, look out for squalls.”

He poured out a glass of brandy and sat with his hand on the glass, sipping his liquor now and again, but never turning his watchful gaze from the door. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, every wise man’s son doth know. All was well with Brandon Pomfrett, doubtless; for the time, at any rate, there were two happy persons in Gamaliel’s house to-night. But old Dawkins and myself had scanty consolation; we had nothing to occupy our minds save the vision of the formidable Murch, approaching steadily, inevitably, through the white, silent streets and the darkness. Presently Dawkins began to sing to himself a melancholy chanty, in a rough, low voice that rose and fell like the wind.

“I’m a-drifting with the tide, messmates, a-drifting with the tide.

So let me drift, and let me drift, away to the sea outside,

Along the stream what flows so fast, and murmurs as it goes,

‘Ho, never lift your hand again, nor turn to face your foes,

For——’”

“What’s that?” There came a muffled knocking on the door. Mr Dawkins lugged a pistol from his pocket. But the knocking ceased, and an uncertain footstep passed by the window.

“Saved again,” said Dawkins. “When Murch knocks, he knocks, and similarly, when he walks, he marches, damn him! Another drunken seaman, I reckon.” He laid the pistol on the table, and went on crooning to himself.

“‘For work is done, and thoughts is vain, you’re tired to the bones;

Rest easy now, I’ll carry you slow, and the end for all atones;

I’ll carry you far, and I’ll carry you light, and drop you in your place,

And there shall you rest, and sleep your fill, and forget——’

“Blest if the commander don’t look as if he’d found a golden fortune,” cried the singer, breaking off, as Pomfrett stood beside us. The commander’s face was red and pale, his eyes shining, his whole figure quick with some extraordinary emotion. Curious to compare his vivacious entrance, after seeing Mistress Morgan Leroux, with the depression of Mr Dawkins’s return from the presence of the charmer. But, we are all like crystals, changing and brightening and dimmed again with every chance juxtaposition. The humble chronicler presents this philosophical reflection to the reader for what it is worth; he is aware it has naught to do with the story.

“Gamaliel, there’s a little business in hand, and we’re in a hurry. We won’t hurt you,” says Pomfrett.

No man knew better how to bind and gag than Mr Dawkins; two or three table-cloths, a drawer’s apron, and a curtain will serve as well as ropes upon occasion, and we had poor Hooky trussed like a fowl before he had time to open his mouth.

“Put him away in a safe place,” said Pomfrett, and Dawkins hove the Jew over his shoulder and carried him out.

Pomfrett caught me by the sleeve and hurried me upstairs, and there was Mistress Morgan Leroux, as staidly drest and as demure as any cit’s daughter in Bristol, and a thousand times prettier, though she was pale and thin.

And would Harry Winter, cried Pomfrett, in a wonderful stress of excitement, do him one last service? The said Harry Winter could not have refused had he desired to do so, and he assured the commander of his fidelity. Then was he, it appeared, to take charge of the lady, to carry her away to some secret place, and there keep her safe until Mr Pomfrett’s return. For there were news of the lost ship, the Blessed Endeavour; Pomfrett must put to sea again that very night. There was not a moment to spare; and if Mr Murch, whose return to the house was imminent, were to come upon us, all would be lost. The explanation was clear enough, so far as it went; there would be time enough for questions when we were forth of that dangerous house. We were in the passage leading to the back door when Dawkins came up.

“What! the pretty bird’s on the wing, is she?” says he. “You wouldn’t care to be took care of by old Dawkins, would you, now, my pretty dove? Not you, and very natural, I’m sure. Ah, well, twenty years ago Dawkins would ’a’ had another tune to call, I reckon. But—make so humbly bold, commander—was your convoy provisioned for the cruise?”

“Money! I clean forgot,” cried Pomfrett.

“Of course you did,” said Dawkins. “And lucky you are, commander, to have an old seaman to think for you, when your head’s gone a-dancing after your heart.” He thrust forward his great fist, revealing a handful of gold and silver. Without any words, Pomfrett swiftly conveyed the money into my pocket. “Coins ain’t plunder—but never mind the rules. And I reckon there’s more stowed away somewheres,” remarked Dawkins. From which it may be surmised that Mr Dawkins had emptied Mr Gamaliel’s till.

The next moment the lady and I were out in the dark, the door bolted behind us. We began to walk forward in silence through the thick snow.

XIX
Tells the Conclusion of the Night’s Adventures

The first thing to be done was to get a lodging for the lady at some place where I was myself unknown, so I steered her towards the best inn of the city. As we went Mistress Morgan told me something of what had befallen since the Modesty bark gave the slip to the Blessed Endeavour off Barbadoes. It was easy to see that Mr March was glad at our departing, though he said little enough on the subject, beyond a curt intimation that Mr Pomfrett was welcome to go and be damned in his own way for an ungrateful young idiot. Mr Murch being immovable, Morgan submitted in silence. After selling his own ship, the Wheel of Fortune, and taking her crew aboard our original ship, the Blessed Endeavour, whose complement was disbanded, Murch set sail for Catoche Bay, as we had surmised. Not that he believed in Mr Dawkins’s glass bottle, but it was a principle of March’s never to neglect a chance. And, sure enough, he found, and lifted, a considerable booty. Then he sailed for Port of London. Meanwhile, the wily thief had painted out the name of the Blessed Endeavour and painted in the Wheel of Fortune. For, he had retained the papers of the real Wheel of Fortune; and among them was the deed of gift, by which, as the patient reader may remember, Brandon Pomfrett had assigned that ship to Mr Murch. Thus, in case he were boarded by one of Her Majesty’s ships, Mr Murch would appear as simple captain and owner of the bark Wheel of Fortune, sailing on his own account. The position was a trifle ambiguous; but, so long as a gentleman avoided open piracy, no one, in those days, was superfluous to ask questions; and Murch had, on that score, as fair a prospect of a clear run into London as any picaroon could reasonably expect. But, although he escaped the hand of justice, the same tempest that wrought so hardly with us drove him far out of his course likewise; and although the Blessed Endeavour, alias Wheel of Fortune, never fell into the same extremities as the Modesty ship, her crew went on short rations and suffered much from sickness, so that many died; and when the same storm that drove the Modesty ship ashore in Berehaven struck the Blessed Endeavour in the chops of the Channel (so near upon her heels were we) there were scarce twenty men fit to work the ship. She drove before the wind, northwestward, and in the end Murch beached her in Morte Bay, on the coast of Devon, in an inlet under the lee of the rocky headland called Baggy Point. There she lay, firm fixed by the bows, chock-a-block with plunder. Had he a full ship’s company, Murch could have repaired the leak and towed her off at high tide; but, finding himself hopelessly short-handed, Mr Murch thought best to leave the ship in charge of the boatswain, while he sailed to Bristol in the yawl, to procure a fresh crew. Upon fetching up at Bristol he went straight to his agent, who, as we know, was Mr John Gamaliel; and, for the sake of convenience, took up his quarters in the house of that useful Israelite for the few days during which he was fitting out a schooner and collecting a crew for the salvage of the Blessed Endeavour, alias Wheel of Fortune. So it was that when we brought up at the house of Gamaliel Mr Murch was on the eve of sailing, a fortunate coincidence which, the writer freely admits, has a spice of the improbable. But so things fell out—and is that the writer’s fault? And I doubt if this turn of fortune would have availed the excellent Pomfrett had not Morgan Leroux, with the instant divination that belongs to some women, prompted the owners’ agent to seize Mr Murch’s schooner and to sail in her himself. Once aboard our old ship, he would be upsides with Mr Murch. It would be a simple matter to represent to the remnant of officers and men that Murch himself had despatched the supercargo on the business; and, in any case, the ship’s company would care for nothing in the world save to be paid off with a handsome dividend, as quick as might be. Even as we talked, Pomfrett should be putting to sea. The carpenters and shipwrights were already aboard; and as for the common seamen who were yet ashore, they might be replaced with the wild crew Mr Dawkins had let loose from Gamaliel’s dungeons; and if Mr Murch appeared in the meantime, why, he was but one against a dozen drunken desperadoes.

Nevertheless, the enterprise carried a thousand risks; March, we knew, would stick at nothing; and the lady under my arm, once so cool and undaunted, was twittering with anxiety.

“I ought to be there,” she kept saying. “I ought never to run away like this—it’s shameful. But he told me to, and I promised. And I’m sorry for Mr Murch. I cannot help it. He was never unkind to me. But what could I do? I had to sacrifice someone. And now, I don’t know what will happen.” And I had scarce settled her in her inn, than Mistress Morgan despatched me to spy out how matters were going. Pomfrett had enjoined me very strictly to stay beside his dear; but ’twas easier to disobey the commander than his lady; and back again I must trudge through the snow to that fatal tavern, the home of our misfortunes, fervently hoping that Mr Murch might not fall across the poor clerk and twist the news of the conspiracy out of him with his two hands. The streets were empty as the desert and dark as caves, save for the glimmer, here and there, of a lamp swinging in the wind. Murch might have had his will and left his victim for dead in perfect security. But I fetched up at Gamaliel’s without harm, and peered in at the open door. Murch had not arrived, that was evident, for there were Pomfrett and his faithful ally, Mr Dawkins, marshalling the crew to go down to the ship. The men were newly clothed—out of Gamaliel’s stores, it is to be supposed; and they were not so drunk but that they could obey orders. Pomfrett, catching sight of me, leaped aside and gripped me by the arm.

“What is it—is anything wrong?” says he, in great alarm. And when I told him how matters stood, he cursed me for infringing his solemn behest like a slaver captain. “But now you are here,” says he, “you can make yourself useful. There’s plenty to be done.”

There was. First, there were the men to be shepherded down to the ship, which would have been easier had we known whereabouts beside the quay she was moored. However, we started for the docks by the nearest way; it was not far, but for all the hurry we made, a sober man could have crawled there on his hands and knees in the time we took. For none of the men were sober, and two or three tumbled down at every few steps. But we were out of the house, at least, and in due time we came to the black water, lapping at the sides of the moored ships, whose masts and rigging glimmered white like a snow-wreathed forest. The men were drawn up in close order beneath the wind-blown flicker of a lamp, and while Pomfrett and Dawkins mounted guard over them, Harry Winter was trotted off in the blinding snow to pick the schooner the Willing Mind out of the maze of shipping. He might have groped till morning had it not been for Mr Murch’s habits of discipline, which kept a riding-light burning and a seaman on watch. So we got aboard, and roused the watch below; and Pomfrett took command in the potent name of Captain Murch; who, said he, having been detained by affairs, would pick up the ship from Portishead, at the mouth of the river, in the morning. The crew who were already aboard, had no reason for suspicion; and in a bitter bad temper they were driven aloft by Dawkins to unfurl the frozen sails.

Next, a pilot had to be found, to take the ship down the river; and Henry Winter must tramp on that errand also. There were pilots in plenty, lodging hard by; most of them were known to me, and a hard-bitten, hard-swearing set of autocrats they were. I had work enough to get the first man out of his bed to the window, and when he learned for what he was wanted he bade the messenger to warmer climes, and clapped-to the casement; the second did likewise; and the third yielded only to the exhibition of a double fee.

Day was breaking, in a leaden and bleak lightening of the sky, as I returned along the quays with the surly pilot at my heels. The snow had ceased; the chill wind, blowing dead up river, was crisping the grey water into little waves; the roofs of the houses and every rope and spar of the wilderness of shipping showed white upon the scowling heavens. Bulwarks were ridged with snow, ships’ sides were crusted with it to the overhang, snow powdered the still figure-heads, caked upon the carved work and lattices of the stern-galleries, and lay thick and level upon deck and hatchway. Here and there a ship’s lanthorn shone with a pallid gleam, a sign of life that set the point upon that scene of desolation. Only upon the little schooner, which carried the last forlorn hope of all our fortunes, were black figures clambering and busy, alow and aloft.

Brandon Pomfrett, captain once more, met us at the gangway and shook hands with the pilot, who rolled stolidly forward to his place. Pomfrett stayed but to hand me more money—more of Gamaliel’s usury, I suppose—and to bid me go directly back to my post, before he gave the order to cast off. So far, then, we had succeeded; Murch, for some inexplicable reason, had not appeared, and a part of the intolerable load under which we had been labouring was lifted.

But, as I entered a side street leading from the quay, I had near brushed against a big man, who stood in the shelter of a bow-window, gazing across the snowy breadth of the quay to where the Willing Mind was shaking out her sails. I caught the gleam of a little eye beneath a tufted eyebrow, white as the snow that powdered the great figure from head to foot, a patch of bronzed skin netted with fine lines, the bridge of a big nose—there was no mistake. Murch neither spoke nor moved, and you may guess that Henry Winter had no desire to tarry. The recognition passed in a moment; the next, I was ploughing up the street as fast as I could walk, and wishing that a foolish scruple did not forbid a headlong flight. I glanced about as I turned the corner. The figure was gone.

Then, it came into my mind that Mr Murch had even more cogent reasons for avoiding our company than we had for avoiding his. We had but to tell our history to Pomfrett’s uncle, the great Brandon Pomfrett, and Mr Murch would be laid by the heels as a common pirate—for his device of changing the ship’s name and papers would never have availed him here—with a fair prospect of Execution Dock to occupy his mind in gaol; while Mr Pomfrett sent to rescue the Blessed Endeavour; and although Murch might suppose that Pomfrett the younger would hesitate to follow this direct course, out of regard to Morgan Leroux, he could not reckon upon the youngster’s forbearance; especially as it was undoubtedly the way Murch would himself have taken, in his adversary’s place. Murch was a man of remarkable penetration; but, he could never understand the solemn young agent’s boyish and romantic vanity. He could never have believed that Pomfrett would risk all on the least chance of getting back his ship by his private enterprise, sailing her triumphantly into Bristol docks, and walking into his uncle’s office with an elaborate affectation of unconcern. “Good-day, sir, I hope you are well. Yes, we fetched up this morning; a bit of dirt in the Channel, but nothing to speak of,” etc., etc. If I read Brandon Pomfrett the younger aright, he clung with all his might to the hope of some such ending of all his troubles.

Morgan Leroux was awaiting me, at the cheek of a brisk fire, with something hot on the hob. She was as grateful to me for bringing her the news of the sailing of the Willing Mind, as though I had brought the thing to pass by myself. But when I told her of the apparition of Mr Murch, quietly watching his own schooner cast off, she looked very grave. “I don’t like that,” said she, shaking her head, her level brows drawn down. “Mr Murch is never so dangerous as when he’s quiet. And he let them put off without lifting a finger? This wears an ill look, it does, indeed.”

She sat frowning at the fire and biting her underlip, while I set forth the reasons which should undoubtedly influence Mr Murch to keep himself very private.

“All very true, Harry,” says she, “but hardly sufficient. At the same time, I am sure Murch must have come too late to find them at Gamaliel’s house—and he might have seen them from outside, you know—for if he had, there would have been a fight. Oh, yes,” says Morgan, shaking her head, “Brandon and Dawkins and all—you don’t know Murch. He had the name of the strongest man in all the Brotherhood of the Sea, and brave as a lion. No, no. Murch must have missed the party at the tavern, learned all from Gamaliel, and gone straightway to the water-side. And then, I suppose, he did not care to tackle the ship’s company, or risk a great disturbance—and they might have thrown him into the dock. But I don’t know.... The more I think of Mr Murch standing there with his cloak about his face, the less I like it. He’s got something else in his mind. Something else. Now, what can it be?”

We learned, later, that Morgan’s hypothesis was correct. And what was in Mr Murch’s mind, as he stood there watching the Willing Mind casting loose, we were to learn immediately. There came a loud ringing at the bell in the inn-yard, which was used to summon the ostler. The window of the room opened upon the yard, and, drawing aside the curtain, I beheld Mr Murch standing on the stones without. He was bawling for the ostler as though shouting on his quarterdeck in a gale of wind. When the man appeared, Murch ordered a horse to be saddled immediately. Hidden in the curtain, we watched Mr Murch pacing up and down the yard; saw the horse led forth, and Murch inspecting the animal minutely; saw him pay the ostler, mount, and clatter out of the yard; and turned to each other with the same thought in our faces, the same words on our lips.

“He’s riding down to Morte Bay.”

“Where’s the wind?” asks Morgan, quick as light.

“Dead ahead. The schooner must tack all down the Channel.”

“She won’t make four knots an hour.”

“And the distance is the same by sea and land.”

“If Murch gets there first——” Morgan broke off and stared at me in white dismay. “Harry,” says she, “you must follow him.”

XX
The Longest Liver takes All

There was no help for it. The poor, guileless clerk must take the road and chase the formidable old captain of buccaneers; and where was the use of such an enterprise, was more than he knew. But, as he may have indicated once or twice in the course of these memoirs, what Mistress Morgan Leroux commanded had to be done. Of course, if Mr Murch won this singular race, and came aboard his ship before Brandon Pomfrett in the Willing Mind could make Morte Bay, our game was lost. Murch would fight the ship or sink her, rather than yield; a single lucky shot would disable the unarmed schooner, and her boats would be helpless under fire of small-arms. Moreover, in a place where none knew him, Mr Murch would have the civil power at his back; his papers were in order; to all appearance, the ship was his; he was the honest shipmaster, and Captain Pomfrett the picaroon. Pomfrett might sheer off, it is true, and invoke the law himself, or appeal for help to a ship of Her Majesty’s, if he could find one. But his chances of either succour on the desolate coast of North Devon were small; moreover, if he came within range of Mr Murch’s artillery, he was like to leave his bones in Morte Bay—a name in itself of unpleasant import—and, in Mr Murch’s favourite phrase, the longest liver would take all. Pomfrett might, again, return as a last resource to Bristol, if he found Mr Murch in possession, and contrived to escape from him. But, by the time he had made the voyage, and his uncle had taken measures to recover the Blessed Endeavour, it was hard but Mr Murch would have found a way to put to sea again; and, once on blue water, it was long odds, indeed, if any of our company ever again saw so much as the lift of his topsails. No: there was little room for doubt that the issue lay with the winner of the race between mounted man and sailing ship. But, even so, how was Henry Winter to help? He was no Milanion, goddess-favoured; he had no golden apples to strew in Mr Murch’s path. Indeed, ’tis doubtful if a whole orchard of such fruit would have given pause to this desperate Atalanta. Besides, Murch knew of my presence in Bristol, and he would be on his guard against any surprisal. Altogether, I had as lief give chase unarmed to a bear robbed of her whelps.

I should be better employed (I said) in laying the case before Mr Brandon Pomfrett the elder. It was hard if that magnate, with all Bristol city at his back, could not devise a scheme to reinforce his luckless nephew. But Morgan Leroux scorned the notion.

“What!” says she. “Go whining to that pot-bellied burgess, asking for help for his poor little nephew? I had thought better of your understanding, Henry. I thought you knew Brandon better than that!”

“I know him so well,” said I, “that I know he would forfeit all in the world rather than a scruple of childish vanity.”

Morgan struck her fist upon the table, and I was sorry I had spoken. “Vanity or not,” says she, very angry, “he’s set himself to play a match, and it’s not you shall spoil the sport, Mr Henry Winter, I can tell you. And vanity or none, there’s courage as well, at any rate. And that’s a quality useful at a pinch, Mr Winter,” says Morgan, with great meaning.

“You think I don’t want to go?” I said.

“La, Mr Winter,” Morgan interrupted, looking at me with a highly disagreeable expression, “you are so quick, you quite take my breath away. However could you guess that, now?”

“It’s kind of you, at any rate, to make the parting easier,” I said.

For I saw that I must go; although it did not stand in my code of honourable obligation to fling myself, without sufficient reason, adrift in mid-winter on the wild hills of Somerset and Devon, at the risk of being shot by a bloody and reckless pirate. But, after all, there was a faint possibility that I might prove of service; although, unless I shot Mr Murch from behind a hedge—which was unfortunately impossible, even for a gentleman of fortune—I could not for the life of me see what I should be doing.

“Do you think I would not go myself, if I had not promised to stay here?” demanded Morgan.

“God forbid!” I said. “Only absolve me of the same promise, and you shall be rid of me at once!”

“Bless you, Harry, I don’t want to be rid of you!” cried this singular lady, changing from wrath to kindness in a moment. “I’m short of temper, I know. You must forget what I said. Only it went to my heart to see you stand there prating like a sea-lawyer, and Murch doing his eight knots over the hills.”

The sun was rising behind Dundry Hill, with the old tower a-top that keeps vigil over Bristol city, as horse and man ploughed through the melting snow; the sky was clearing to seaward, and a space of blue was lifting about the horizon. Murch was out of sight, and the schooner was hidden in the deep gorge of the river behind me. No more solitary atom in all the bleak world than Henry Winter, riding on a fool’s errand, to meet a fool’s end very likely. In the thawing drift and the deep mire the going was very heavy; at present the odds were in favour of the ship, despite the contrary wind. It was noon before a black spot appeared far in front, crawling up the hillside all ribbed with brown amid the white.

We were climbing the spurs of the Mendips by this time; and when the road began to descend on the farther side into the flat country of the Brent Marshes, I let Mr Murch forge still further ahead. At Weare, where one crosses the River Ax, I learned from the people of the ale-house that a solitary traveller had passed an hour since. We had covered some twenty miles in five or six hours. I could not tell how the schooner did, for the road lay too deep inland. But all across the marshes the road slants towards the coast, and the sea rose again into view upon the right hand. The dim, blue plain was studded here and there with sails, but whether the schooner were in sight or not I could not determine. Then the road turned due south to Bridgwater. The dusk was thickening fast, and horse and man were pretty well jaded when we clattered into the little town. The red firelight beaconed from the windows, and I had more urgent desire for a bed than ever in my life. But there was no rest for this miserable adventurer. He must press on, and when he could bear the saddle-chafe no longer, he must even pad the hoof himself. The horse was near foundered already, and when I made request at the inn for a fresh mount, behold, Mr Murch, for no doubt but it was he, had already departed astride the only nag available. I stayed in that house an hour, had a meal while the horse was baiting, gave the wretched beast a drench of wine after the manner of the highwaymen, and started anew.

The next stage was Watchett, and with good luck we might make it in three hours. You are to remember that no man fresh from the sea feels easy on a horse, though he be an experienced rider, which I never was; conceive, then, the misery of Henry Winter. The saddle was no better than red-hot iron to him, every bone ached, and he had a dreadful pain in his belly. As the darkness gathered, a thick, soft rain began to fall. The horse stumbled and plashed and floundered onward, now and again coming to a dead stop, hanging his head and blowing heavily. Every minute the rider thought he could endure no longer, and then he would try for one more minute; and so, minute by minute, the pain and weariness wore themselves into a kind of nexus of suffering, a dolorous condition in which he seemed to have existed always, and which would endure for ever. Then he fell into a broken sleep, bowing forward with both hands clasping the pommel of the saddle; and he thought he was at sea again and had fallen asleep on watch; and then he thought he was a child, going to church with the sound of the bells in his ears, the tedious Sunday bells; and then he would awake again to see the moon shining from a rift in the clouds and a humped shadow gliding beside him. At these times I had wit enough to take an observation of the stars; and so it was, I suppose, that I kept the road, travelling at the foot of the Quantocks, and passed between the butt of the hills and the sea, and came to Watchett.

It was midnight then, and not a light shone in any window, save one; and, steering for that, I came to the inn of the place. I slid off and fell down in a heap, and staggered up, and into the tavern; and there, beside a great fire, with a bottle at his elbow, sat Mr Murch. I had forgot Mr Murch. There he was, and I suppose I stood staring at him like a ninny. Murch looked up, took his cigarro from his mouth, and surveyed me in silence.

“What, Mr Winter?” says Murch. “This is indeed an unexpected meeting. Why, I thought I saw you no later than this morning, but my eyes are older than they were, and I believed they had deceived me. Well, and how do you do, sir?”

He held out his hand, and what could I do but take it? He ordered supper for me, and mulled wine, and what could I do but accept his hospitality? I have often asked myself these questions; and although my conduct may have presented a lamentable weakness, I have never repented it. Mr Murch plied me with food and wine, using the most dignified courtesy; when I had well eaten and drunk, he offered me a cigarro; and still he talked of the weather, and the state of the roads, and the prospects of the country, and what else I forget, but never a word of nearer import. And so long as he chose to maintain reserve, I was in no mood to break it.

“I am truly sorry, Mr Winter,” says Murch, at length, “that I cannot ask you to be my guest for the night. But the truth is, I have affairs of some urgency that call me farther, and I must be jogging even now.”

“The regret would be mine,” I said, “were it not, by a singular chance, that I must be going forward likewise.”

“Dear me!” cried Murch. “And which way lies your road, sir?”

“Along the coast, all down into Devon. And which way lies yours, sir?”

“Why, the very same,” says Murch, heartily. “But what an extraordinary chance, as you say, Mr Winter, that has brought us together from the ends of the earth. We are to be fellow-travellers, again, it seems. What do you say? Shall we be jogging?”

“With all my heart,” I said.

And so it was that Mr Murch and I took the road together, and you may judge of my emotions in this dilemma. How could I quarrel with this extraordinary man? The thing were difficult enough, though we were at open enmity; and now, stuffed as I was with Mr Murch’s victuals, and treated by my host as a long-lost friend, ’twas merely impossible. I had been but a spectator of the comedy of the three buccaneers throughout, and content enough to be no more; it seemed I was to remain a spectator to the end of the piece. Some hazy notion of putting off in a shore-boat to warn the schooner, arose in my labouring mind; but, of what use would that be, even supposing I could escape from Mr Murch, since Pomfrett and Dawkins, that redoubtable navigator, were already cramming the Willing Mind main-chains under? Still, they would be the better prepared had they due warning, and I resolved to attempt this feat did the opportunity arise. But it never arose, as I shall proceed to show, and I do but mention this futile scheme, in justice to Henry Winter; who would fain appear as a man not so utterly destitute of resource in emergency as events would seem to indicate. And, although it cannot be denied that the said personage was never cast for a hero, I have never remarked that he was the less happy for that. Heroism is a fine profession: but it entails a deal of riding and riving, hard knocks and hard fare, and discomfortable tumults of passion, and little enough in the upshot to show for them, very likely. And so to my tale.

“I’ll neither ride nor sail on the private account any more,” says Murch, as we plashed forward in the dark. “This is the last cast. Strange, how we spend our lives getting and saving, and go down quick into the grave at the last. We’re all at knuckle-bones with Signor Death, Mr Winter. I’ve seen many a tall fellow swinging in chains on Gallow’s Point, who would have made an ornament to his country had he lived; the birds feeding on the head of many a fine man who was ready to become a member of Parliament or a Doctor of Divinity. But his repentance came too late, you see—his log was never kept posted. I took warning early by those poor dangling memorials, Mr Winter. You know my rule—a clean ship, alow and aloft, fit for the Great Commander’s inspection by day or night. So I count upon a little leisure in the evening of my days—a clear conscience, no regrets, a good house out of sound of the sea, a cellar of good wine, a library of the classics. For it may surprise you, Mr Winter, to hear that I’ve never read the literature of the ancients. The time to gain that learning which is given to fortunate young men like yourself, sir, must be bought with many a painful year by those who do their business in the great waters.”

He spoke with a settled assurance, strange to remark in a man who was even then riding a desperate race with fortune; and as we journeyed he continued to talk in the same strain. Day was breaking behind the wild hills as we rode into Porlock. Winter had gone in the night; the soft air, filled with the noise of running waters, savoured of the spring; and the sky was faintly touched with hues of rose. We broke our fast at the inn, and Mr Murch ate more than you would think possible.

“I don’t know how it is,” said he. “I’m as hungry as a boy, and it’s not my habit, neither. Why, I feel younger to-day than I have done this many a year, Mr Winter. Is it English air and Exmoor mutton? At this rate, I shall live for ever.”

And his eye was bright as a young man’s as he got into the saddle again, despite the pain it must have cost him, as I knew from my own sufferings.

We had taken fresh horses, and so rode from out the cup of the valley and came upon the summit of the moorland, where the wind blew keen. We halted, and gazed to seaward. The sea, a brilliant blue, spread away into a bright haze, dotted here and there with sails of ships; but I could not tell, at that distance, if the schooner were among them. Murch, who knew the look of the ship better than I, might have made her out; but if he did, he kept the discovery to himself; and we jogged on without a word. Presently Mr Murch began to talk again, and all he said was pitched in the same key of moralism. He told of his voyages, and the strange countries he had explored, and the foreign cities he had visited; and to hear him talk, you would think the old buccaneer had spent his life as the peaceablest explorer in the world, journeying in the interests of the Royal Society. Yet his narrative continually inferred misfortune or disaster, or something of a darker name, requiring immediate repentance. The word was always on his lips; for want of repentance, it appeared, all his old companions had perished in one way or another; by means of this singular operation, himself had survived danger and escaped judgment, to devote himself at last to the study of the ancients.

“Their bones lie scattered far and wide—the bones of my good shipmates,” said Murch, “I shall think upon them as I sit beside the winter fire, with the claret warming before the blaze. Some lie fathoms deep; the skeletons of some are whitening on sandy Cays; the hanged men are melted to the four winds, sinew and bone. What a troop of ghosts, to come at my signal as I sit snug by the fire, the rain dashing on the windows.... But would you believe it, Mr Winter,” cried Murch, breaking off suddenly, “I’m hungry again—actually famished.”

It was at this point that I began to regard the old buccaneer with a tincture of fear. There was something not right about the man. What was it? Not merely was his ordinary strain of talk heightened as by a touch of fever, which might have been caused by the excitement of his enterprise, but there was something new and daunting in him, though I could not put a name to it. I did not like his look. It might easily be that his late disastrous voyage, coming upon him on the top of a long life of sailing and fighting in hot climates, had unsettled his wits. It would be an ill moment for me if Mr Murch went mad on these desolate hills; and I kept a wary eye upon my travelling companion. And yet there was nothing of madness in his talk, and his manner held the same strong composure.

We must needs halt at Lynton for another meal, though it was scarce two hours since we had breakfasted at Porlock. Murch took his food standing, in a greedy haste. Then we were in the saddle again, making a long stage of it to Ilfracombe, for the going was extremely heavy. Yet Murch never lost his patience, but held steadily onward, with the same bright-eyed composure, the same intermittent talk, the same complaints of hunger. So, mile after mile, we ploughed our way across the unending wastes of moorland, high above the sea, and still the next hill rose in soft undulations before us, and still the wind blew with a constant force in our faces. It was long past noon when we rode down into Ilfracombe, where we had another full meal.

The sun was sinking as we came out upon the bare heights above Morte Point, the northern horn of Morte Bay, of which Baggy Point, beneath which lay the ship, made the southern; and there, some five miles out to seaward, was a little ship beating up against the wind. Now, Morte Bay is scarce four miles round the bend, all level sand, rising landward into grassy dunes. The schooner—if indeed that little craft were she—had nearly double that distance to make, against a head wind. There, beyond the long, brown reach of sand, hid in the purple shadow of the rocky point, lay the Blessed Endeavour. Murch halted, staring to seaward under his hand, the level sunlight striking upon the lower part of his face, revealing every wrinkle of his netted skin, every hair of his great white beard. So I see him now, staring to seaward under his hand, sitting motionless on his horse.

He struck spurs in and clattered down the rocky and steep descent to the sea-shore. Halfway down his horse stumbled and fell, Murch avoiding the animal and coming unhurt to his feet. The poor beast had broken his leg—a glance told us that.

Without a word, Murch drew a pistol and shot the animal through the head; and the smoke had not cleared, or the echoes done leaping from rock to rock, before he had mounted my horse—for I had incautiously dismounted—and was picking his way down the hill at the best pace he could. Slow as he went, ’twas faster than I could travel. But I had a pistol, too, and now was the time to use it; there was no scruple to prevent my shooting my own horse, at least, and I hauled out the weapon, looked to the priming, and dragged myself to a stumbling run. We came to the belt of rolling sand-dunes, and the little, steep ascents checked Mr Murch’s jaded nag, already oppressed with a rider near double the weight he had been carrying hitherto. I lay down and took a steady rest, and when horse and rider forged upon the reddening sunset sky, I pulled the trigger. ’Twas a long shot, but the ball struck the wretched animal somewhere; he stumbled and fell. By the time Murch had disengaged himself, and was lashing savagely at his horse, I had loaded afresh, and the second shot told also. Murch dropped the bridle, facing about, and fired in my direction; but I was hid in the long dry grass, and the bullet sang harmlessly overhead. I thought he would have made at me then; but no, he turned about; I saw his great figure for an instant, black upon the red flush of the sky, as he crossed the summit of the hillock. As he dropped into the hollow I rose to pursue him. We were on equal terms now, so far as two such different men might be; but, I began to think that Harry Winter, in the words of old Dawkins’s chanty, might cry farewell to earth and sky. Nothing seemed easier than for Murch to plant a bullet in him among the sand-hills.

But, avoiding the sky-line, I ran along the hollows of the dunes, until I caught a glimpse of Mr Murch, far out on the vast stretch of sand, trotting heavily forward. The tide was low, showing no more than a delicate fringe of foam beyond a mile of wet sand, gleaming blood-red in the dying sunlight. Far to seaward, the dagger-point of a sail notched the glimmering waters. In the impenetrable shadow of the dark cliffs that rose beyond the brown plain of sand and ran bluntly out to sea, the ship, the goal of forlorn hope, lay still hidden from sight.

Murch was out of range when I came to the level sand, or I think I would have tried a shot at him. This indomitable old gentleman had been near twenty-four hours in the saddle, yet he kept ahead of me. His trot had fallen to a walk; he ploughed along with hanging head, yet he never stopped; while, as for me, I was fain to halt every few paces, and, even so, I thought I should have burst. A man could have crawled on his belly faster than Murch was going, and yet I could not gain upon him. There was but one chance left. When he came within hail of the ship there might be a delay while the men got a boat ashore. But even then Murch had as good a chance—or better—of shooting me as I approached, as I had of shooting him. Meanwhile, he was slowly, irresistibly drawing near the goal; to all appearance, the little black triangle of the schooner’s sail was hardly within the bay; and, keeping the same distance behind him, as though the space between us were enchanted, dragging one foot up and setting it down again, with an inconceivable effort, there came toiling the last hope of Brandon Pomfrett, of Mr Dawkins, of the merchants of Bristol city, and of Mrs A.

So we went, one behind the other, until the masts and yards of the Blessed Endeavour, lying beneath the crags, were dimly printed in the shadow. The schooner was behind us now, and the last flicker of hope died within me. The red ball of the sun hung immediately above the horizon; sea and shore were drenched with red light; a red mist swam giddily before my eyes, with the figure of Murch, a black dot, in the centre.

Suddenly, I saw the bowed figure halt and throw up its hands; the red mist cleared away, and I beheld Murch sinking to his knees, struggling in the sand. He cried out, with an accent of mortal terror dreadful to hear, and, as in a dream, when one strives to run and leaden weights clog the feet, so I struggled ineffectually towards the agonised figure, that seemed, in the red illumination, to be writhing in a lake of blood. The quicksand had him by the waist; he upreared his huge trunk, and I saw his face for one moment—not all the tides of time can wash out the remembrance. He flung himself this way and that, with gasps and groans that seemed to tear his heart. The ooze rose to his chest; his arms were swallowed to the elbow; he dragged them free with a bursting effort, and the slime rose to his chin. An inarticulate gabble of sounds broke from him; then, his mouth was choked with sand. The last I saw of the poor wretch was a hand that clutched at the air once or twice, then sank out of sight. A ripple agitated the wet, oily surface once and again, and all was still.

XXI
Mr Dawkins has the Last Word

I watched the sun visibly declining, until the glowing sphere was half submerged; and across the red semicircle slowly glided the black triangle of a sail. Presently, the sun vanished below the far sea-line, and the grey ghost of a schooner stole across the glimmering water and vanished into the gloom that was thickening under the Point. The voyagers might take their time, now, after so many thousand leagues of chasing; and so might the wretched chronicler of those travels, dragging himself towards the lights that glimmered in the darkness under the hill. But that night Pomfrett and Dawkins and I were sitting at supper again in our own cabin.

But I could not eat; the thought of Murch and his insatiate craving for food stuck in my throat.

“Sick, are you? Well, and I don’t wonder. I’m on’y surprised as a man of Murch’s education didn’t take warning from that there unnatural craving for victuals,” observed old Dawkins, shaking his head. “That was the grave-hunger, that was; the earth a-hungry for its nat’ral food. I seen it before, and never know’d the sign to fail. But it was fate, I reckon.”

My tale draws to its natural conclusion. I have but to seize the loose strands of the rope’s end, and it’s done. Pomfrett had the Blessed Endeavour repaired and floated off, before he touched upon the subject of the dividend to the ship’s company, and then he took a short way with those unfortunate buccaneers. He so contrived that they were all ashore together without boats. Then he sent for the quartermaster, and went round the ship with him, collecting every man’s possessions, which were piled in a heap in the waist. Next came the delicate question of the division of plunder. Since the ship had been stolen, Pomfrett might justly have taken possession of the whole cargo. But he had dipped his hands into the same bucket as themselves; he, too, had been a gentleman of fortune; and, moreover, he had no mind to incur the hazard of being blackmailed for the rest of his life by every stray desperado of Murch’s gang. So he decided to treat the booty gained by the Blessed Endeavour while she was under Mr Murch’s captaincy, as though the old pirate had commanded her in the interests of the rightful owners, but omitting from consideration dead-shares and compensation for wounds. Under this arrangement, himself and Dawkins and I profited with the rest, as though we had been aboard throughout the voyage. The owners, of course, had no part in plunder, as such, as I have before explained in Chapter II. To them belonged all coined money, bar gold and silver ingots, women’s ear-rings, pearls and precious stones, and loose diamonds. The plunder itself, then, including bedding, clothes, gold rings, buckles, buttons, liquors, provisions, arms, ammunition, watches, wrought silver or gold crucifixes, prisoners’ movables generally, and wearing apparel, was equitably divided by the supercargo.

“You’ve a pretty high way with you, hain’t you?” grumbled the quartermaster. “I seen many a dividend, but never a one like this here. Where’s the skipper? Why don’t we wait for Mr Murch, then?”

“We might have to wait long, and it’s a pity to miss the tide,” said Pomfrett, pushing a paper across the table to him. “There’s the formal quittance in full on behalf of the officers and crew. You are to sign for yourself and the men ashore.”

“Not me; not likely,” returned the other, angry and suspicious. “D’ye think I want a knife in my back? The officers and crew have got to be present at this here dividend, themselves.”

“Please yourself,” said Brandon. “It’s that or nothing. I’m stretching a point as it is, though you mayn’t think it.”

But the matter had to be opened much more at large to the quartermaster before he would sign. In fine, it was the beach for him and his mates, whether or no; the choice lay between full pockets and empty.

So he signed at last, and Pomfrett folded the paper, and buttoned his coat upon the document which was both to set him square with his owners and secure him against any future attempt at blackmailing. The long-boat was loaded with the men’s kit and their booty, and sent ashore with the quartermaster, who was left on the beach to do sentry-go over a king’s ransom until such time as the crew should come along. But, they were happily employed in an ale-house some two miles inland; and we of the Blessed Endeavour never saw those scoundrels any more.

We fetched up in Bristol docks on a clear, frosty evening at sunset, the bells chiming somewhere in the darkling town, with its lights glimmering here and there, and the sky over all jewelled with faint stars. Morgan Leroux was waiting on the quay—Brandon had sent her a letter from Morte Bay—and those two went off together to the house of Brandon Pomfrett the elder. Old Dawkins and I were left to keep each other company; and as we sat upon the deserted deck, where everything was so strangely still and motionless, and looked ashore at the darkness closing down upon the packed houses, a kind of melancholy fell upon us.

“Why, now, shipmate,” says Dawkins, “we had ought to been happy, you and me, not to mention the young turtle-doves yonder; though I reckon them being inexperienced, they think they’re in heaven, having fetched up safe and hearty, and chock-a-block with plunder, too. But we ain’t not to say hilarious, are we now? No, says you, not properly so. Ah, well, things is so, shipmate. I reckon we wants a good rousing supper with plenty liquor, to start us on the Jerusalem tack, shipmate.”

And certainly, when, a little later, we found ourselves seated at the table of Uncle Brandon Pomfrett, not even Mrs A.’s sour countenance could stay our hilarity. Old Dawkins presently found his tongue, getting to his feet and leaning forward on the table in his old way.

“Here’s to you, gentlemen o’ fortune all, and you, ma’am, what’s a lady o’ fortune, by what I hear,” shouts Dawkins, glass in hand. “Gentlemen of fortune all, by the bones of the deep! For if you don’t sail yourselves, you sends us on the account, and ‘there’s many a man gone on this cruise, what never has come back’—ah, many a good seaman! Not a dozen men left, out o’ ninety hands! Ah, it’s you that stays at home is the bold ones, for every man that’s drowned in the deep or cast away, or perished in mortal pain and sickness, or gets shot or stabbed or what not, why, his blood’s at your door. Ah, it is! No wonder you goes to church so frequent, and pipes all hands to prayers twice daily. Lord!” says Dawkins, staring hard at Pomfrett the elder, and turning his little, lighted eyes upon Mrs A., who paled visibly, “as I look at you, lady and gentleman born, I could swear I see the blood a-spotting your white hands. But what cheer! The longest liver takes all, and the chaplain can square the dividend, I reckon. What’s he draw pay and rations for, else?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. If those good ship-owners, Mrs A. and Mr Pomfrett, never heard the truth before, they heard it, then, from Mr Dawkins’s vinous lips. But that gallant seaman, not in the least understanding the situation, kindly relieved our embarrassment by incontinently breaking into song; and the rest of the evening went pleasantly enough, for we told the whole history of our adventures; only suppressing Mr Dawkins’s share in them to the extent of setting our detention in Barbadoes to the sole account of the late Mr Murch.

The rest is soon told. When the owners came to overhaul the accounts, Sir Henry Morgan’s silver was, at Morgan’s request, made over to them. They never knew to whom it had originally belonged. The sacrifice was the easier, because Murch had left the bag of diamonds he took in Cartagena in Morgan’s keeping, and the supercargo saw no reason for including that little piece of booty in the Book of Plunder. And, as soon as might be, the two were married, of course. Pomfrett goes no more to sea; he is become a country gentleman and a Justice of the Peace; and I know no life better worth living, if you own a taste for it. As for me, I am sufficiently occupied with that leisurely study of the ancients, to which Mr Murch had looked forward with such admirable enthusiasm. And as for Captain Dawkins, he would not touch his plunder. “No, no,” said he. “Why, inside of a month old Dawkins would come a-begging to your door, as poor as the day he were born. No, don’t you give Dawkins no money, if you love him, no more than a matter of a few dollars, drawn weekly, you understand. And don’t you give him no more, not if he was to beg on his bended knees.”

So Pomfrett invested Mr Dawkins’s little fortune, and bought him a white cottage by the water-side, with a stout sail-boat moored at the garden foot, and a flagstaff in a gravelled square, bordered with sea-shells. There the old gentleman entertains his old friend, the Reverend Jeremiah Ramsbottom, who is understood to be piloting Mr Dawkins’s soul on the straight course to the Golden Gates.

“I never knowed,” says Dawkins, “that religion were that easy. Why, a child could learn it! You ain’t got to do nothing, on’y avoid several things what a man of my age and experience don’t want to do anything but avoid, and believe what the chaplain tells you to believe. Believe! Why, there ain’t anything a seaman can’t believe, I often think, if he lays his mind to it. That,” says Dawkins, with a wink, “is the benefit of being a sailor, d’ye see. And to think o’ the many poor seamen drowned, what ain’t had my opportunities! Ah, well, they’re all right, too; we’ll meet again, I reckon—

“‘We’ll meet again at Fiddler’s Green,

All up among the stars.’”

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Table of Contents

- THE LAST BUCCANEER

- CONTENTS

- I Shows how a Simple Bait will serve to hook the willing Fish

- II We set our Hands to a Christian Enterprise

- III In which the Blessed Endeavour is deprived of Direction both Spiritual and Temporal

- IV A Letter of Introduction
- V Mr Murch’s Repentance
- VI Two Catspaws and a Lady
- VII The Wheel of Fortune makes a Quick Run

- VIII The Story of the Incomparable Lady and the Admiral of Buccaneers

- IX How the Supercargo asserted his Independence

- X Dux Femina Fecit
- XI The Little Cruise of La Modeste
- XII The Old Buccaneer and the New
- XIII Showing what Befell in Caratasca
- XIV Captain Murch takes Command

- XV Which contains the Only Ostensible Love-Scene in the Book

- XVI Mr Dawkins gives Us a Little Surprise
- XVII The Luck is Fairly Out
- XVIII Hooky Gamaliel pays the Score

- XIX Tells the Conclusion of the Night’s Adventures

- XX The Longest Liver takes All
- XXI Mr Dawkins has the Last Word
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE